AX  BEERBGHh 


/<?29 


] 


A   CHRISTMAS 
GARLAND 


THREE   FRENCH    MORALISTS,    AND    THE 

GALLANTRY  OF  FRANCE. 
By  EDMUND  GOSSK,  C.B.,  LL.D.    Crown  8vo. 
Price  6s.  net. 

FATHER  AND  SON  :  A  STUDY. 

By  EDMUND  GOSSE,  C.B.,  LL.D.  With 
Portraits.  Price,  Limp  Leather,  3$.  net ; 
Cloth,  2S.  net. 

THE  LITTLE  MAN  AND  OTHER  SATIRES. 

By  JOHN  GALSWORTHY.  Crown  8vo.  Price 
6s.  net. 

A  SHEAF. 

Essays  by  JOHN  GALSWORTHY.  Crown  8vo. 
Price  5-r.  net. 

HAIL   AND    FAREWELL  :    AN    AUTOBIO- 
GRAPHY. 

By  GEORGE  MOORE.  In  three  parts.  I.  Ave. 
II.  Salve.  III.  Vale.  Each,  crown  8vo, 
cloth,  6s.  net. 

THE     COLLECTED     WORKS     OF     FIONA 

MACLEOD  (WILLIAM  SHARP). 
Uniformly  bound  in  Seven  Volumes.     Crown 
8vo.     Price  5$.  net  per  volume. 

Uniform  ivith.  the  Above  : 
SELECTED      WRITINGS      OF      WILLIAM 

SHARP. 
In  Five  Volumes.     Price  5$.  net  per  volume. 

Also 

MEMOIRS  OF  WILLIAM  SHARP  (FIONA 
MACLEOD).  Compiled  by  Mrs.  WILLIAM 
SHARP.  In  Two  Volumes.  Price  los.  net. 


LONDON:  WILLIAM    HEINEMANN 
21,   BEDFORD  STREET,  W.C. 


A  CHRISTMAS 

GARLAND     woven 

by    MAX    BEERBOHM 


NEW  YORK 
E.  P.  BUTTON  &  COMPANY 

1918 


Printed  in  Great  Britain. 


NOTE 

Stevenson,  in  one  of  his  essays,  tells  us  how  he 
"  played  the  sedulous  ape  "  to  Hazlitt,  Sir  Thomas 
Browne,  Montaigne,  and  other  writers  of  the  past. 
And  the  compositors  of  all  our  higher-toned  news- 
papers keep  the  foregoing  sentence  set  up  in  type 
always,  so  constantly  does  it  come  tripping  off  the 
pens  of  all  higher-totted  reviewers.  Nor  ever  do  1 
read  it  icithout  a  fresh  thrill  of  respect  for  the 
young  Stevenson.  I,  in  my  own  very  inferior 
boyhood,  found  it  hard  to  revel  in  so  much  as  a 
single  page  of  any  writer  earlier  than  Thackeray* 
This  disability  I  did  not  shake  off,  alas,  after  I  left 
school.  There  seemed  to  be  so  many  live  authors 
worth  reading.  I  gave  precedence  to  them,  and, 
not  being  much  of  a  reader,  never  had  time  to 
grapple  with  the  old  masters.  Meanwhile,  I  was 
already  writing  a  little  on  my  own  account.  I  had 
had  some  sort  of  aptitude  for  Latin  proic  and 


2226971 


NOTE 

Latin  verse.  I  wondered  often  whether  those  two 
things,  essential  though  they  were  (and  are)  to  the 
making  of  a  decent  style  in  English  prose,  sufficed 
for  the  making  of  a  style  more  than  decent.  I  felt 
that  I  must  have  other  models.  Andlhus  I  acquired 
the  habit  of  aping,  nozv  and  again,  quite  sedulously, 
this  or  that  live  writer — sometimes,  it  must  be 
admitted,  in  the  hope  of  learning  rather  what  to 
avoid.  I  acquired,  too,  the  habit  of  publishing 
these  patient  little  efforts.  Some  of  them  appeared 
in  "  The  Saturday  Review "  many  years  ago  ; 
others  appeared  there  more  recently.  I  have 
selected,  by  kind  permission  of  the  Editor,  one  from 
the  earlier  lot,  and  seven  from  the  later.  The 
other  nine  in  this  book  are  printed  for  the  Jirat 
time.  The  book  itself  may  be  taken  as  a  sign 
that  I  think  my  own  style  is,  at  length,  more  or  less 
formed. 

M.B. 

Rapcdlo,  1912. 


CONTENTS 

PACK 

THE  MOTE  IN  THE  MIDDLE 

DISTANCE        .        .        .  H#NRY  J*M*S       .  .1 

P.C.,  X,  36             .            .            .    R*D**RD    K*PL*NG  .  11 

OUT  OF  HARM'S  WAY       .  A.  C.  B*NS*N       .  .  21 

PERKINS  AND  MANKIND     .  H.  G.  W*LLS        .  .  31 
SOME    DAMNABLE    ERRORS 

ABOUT  CHRISTMAS  .        .  G.  K.  CH*ST*RT*N  .  49 
A    SEQUELULA    TO    "  THE 

DYNASTS  "...  TH*M*S  H*RDY  .  .  59 
SHAKESPEARE  AND  CHRIST- 
MAS ....  FR*NK  H*RR*S  .  .  75 
SCRUTS  .  '  .  .  .  ARN*LD  B*NN*TT  .  83 
ENDEAVOUR  .  .  .  J*HN  G*LSW*RTIIY  .  101 
CHRISTMAS  .  .  .  .  G.  S.  STR**T  .  .115 
THE  FEAST  .  .  .  J*S*PH  C*NR*D  .  .  123 
A  RECOLLECTION  .  .  EDM*ND  G*SSE  .  .  131 
OF  CHRISTMAS  .  .  .  H*L**RE  B*LL*C  .  145 
A  STRAIGHT  TALK  .  .  G**RGEB*RN*RDSH*W  153 
FOND  HEARTS  ASKEW  .  M**R*CE  H*WL*TT  .  165 
DICKENS  ....  G**RGE  M**RE  .  .  177 
EUPHEMIA  CLASHTHOUGHT  G**RGE  M*R*D*TH  .  187 

vii 


THE  MOTE  IN  THE 
MIDDLE  DISTANCE 

By 

H*NRY  J*M*S 


THE   MOTE   IN   THE  MIDDLE 
DISTANCE 

IT  was  with  the  sense  of  a,  for  him,  very 
memorable  something  that  he  peered  now 
into  the  immediate  future,  and  tried,  not  without 
compunction,  to  take  that  period  up  where  he 
had,  prospectively,  left  it.  But  just  where  the 
deuce  had  he  left  it  ?  The  consciousness  of 
dubiety  was,  for  our  friend,  not,  this  morning, 
quite  yet  clean-cut  enough  to  outline  the  figures 
on  what  she  had  called  his  "  horizon,""  between 
which  and  himself  the  twilight  was  indeed  of  a 
quality  somewhat  intimidating.  He  had  run  up, 
in  the  course  of  time,  against  a  good  number  of 
"  teasers  ; "  and  the  function  of  teasing  them  back 
— of,  as  it  were,  giving  them,  every  now  and  then, 
"  what  for  " — was  in  him  so  much  a  habit  that  he 
would  have  been  at  a  loss  had  there  been,  on  the 
face  of  it,  nothing  to  lose.  Oh,  he  always  had 
offered  rewards,  of  course — had  ever  so  liberally 
3  B  2 


A  CHRISTMAS  GARLAND 

pasted  the  windows  of  his  soul  with  staring 
appeals,  minute  descriptions,  promises  that  knew 
no  bounds.  But  the  actual  recovery  of  the  article 
— the  business  of  drawing  and  crossing  the 
cheque,  blotched  though  this  were  with  tears  of 
joy — had  blankly  appeared  to  him  rather  in  the 
light  of  a  sacrilege,  casting,  he  sometimes  felt,  a 
palpable  chill  on  the  fervour  of  the  next  quest. 
It  was  just  this  fervour  that  was  threatened  as, 
raising  himself  on  his  elbow,  he  stared  at  the  foot 
of  his  bed.  That  his  eyes  refused  to  rest  there 
for  more  than  the  fraction  of  an  instant,  may  be 
taken — was,  even  then,  taken  by  Keith  Tantalus 
— as  a  hint  of  his  recollection  that  after  all  the 
phenomenon  wasn't  to  be  singular.  Thus  the 
exact  repetition,  at  the  foot  of  Eva^s  bed,  of  the 
shape  pendulous  at  the  foot  of  his  was  hardly 
enough  to  account  for  the  fixity  with  which  he 
envisaged  it,  and  for  which  he  was  to  find,  some 
years  later,  a  motive  in  the  (as  it  turned  out) 
hardly  generous  fear  that  Eva  had  already  made 
the  great  investigation  "  on  her  own."  Her  very 
regular  breathing  presently  reassured  him  that,  if 
she  had  peeped  into  "her11  stocking,  she  must 
have  done  so  in  sleep.  Whether  he  should  wake 
her  now,  or  wait  for  their  nurse  to  wake  them 
4 


THE  MOTE 

both  in  due  course,  was  a  problem  presently  solved 
by  a  new  development.  It  was  plain  that  his 
sister  was  now  watching  him  between  her  eyelashes. 
He  had  half  expected  that.  She  really  was — he 
had  often  told  her  that  she  really  was — magnifi- 
cent ;  and  her  magnificence  was  never  more 
obvious  than  in  the  pause  that  elapsed  before  she 
all  of  a  sudden  remarked  "  They  so  very  indu- 
bitably are,  you  know  ! " 

It  occurred  to  him  as  befitting  Eva's  remoteness, 
which  was  a  part  of  Eva's  magnificence,  that  her 
voice  emerged  somewhat  muffled  by  the  bedclothes. 
She  was  ever,  indeed,  the  most  telephonic  of  her 
sex.  In  talking  to  Eva  you  always  had,  as  it 
were,  your  lips  to  the  receiver.  If  you  didn't  try 
to  meet  her  fine  eyes,  it  was  that  you  simply 
couldn't  hope  to :  there  were  too  many  dark,  too 
many  buzzing  and  bewildering  and  all  frankly  not 
negotiable  leagues  in  between.  Snatches  of  other 
voices  seemed  often  to  intertrude  themselves  in 
the  parley ;  and  your  loyal  effort  not  to  overhear 
these  was  complicated  by  your  fear  of  missing 
what  Eva  might  be  twittering.  "Oh,  you 
certainly  haven't,  my  dear,  the  trick  of  pro- 
pinquity ! "  was  a  thrust  she  had  once  parried  by 
saying  that,  in  that  case,  Jie  hadn't — to  which  his 
5 


A  CHRISTMAS  GARLAND 

unspoken  rejoinder  that  she  had  caught  her  tone 
from  the  peevish  young  women  at  the  Central 
seemed  to  him  (if  not  perhaps  in  the  last,  cer- 
tainly in  the  last  but  one,  analysis)  to  lack  finality. 
With  Eva,  he  had  found,  it  was  always  safest  to 
"  ring  off."  It  was  with  a  certain  sense  of  his 
rashness  in  the  matter,  therefore,  that  he  now, 
with  an  air  of  feverishly  "  holding  the  line,"  said 
"  Oh,  as  to  that ! " 

Had  sJie,  he  presently  asked  himself,  "  rung 
off"?  It  was  characteristic  of  our  friend — was 
indeed  "  him  all  over  " — that  his  fear  of  what  she 
was  going  to  say  was  as  nothing  to  his  fear  of 
what  she  might  be  going  to  leave  unsaid.  He 
had,  in  his  converse  with  her,  been  never  so 
conscious  as  now  of  the  intervening  leagues  ;  they 
had  never  so  insistently  beaten  the  drum  of  his 
ear ;  and  he  caught  himself  in  the  act  of  awfully 
computing,  with  a  certain  statistical  passion,  the 
distance  between  Rome  and  Boston.  He  has 
never  been  able  to  decide  which  of  these  points  he 
was  psychically  the  nearer  to  at  the  moment  when 
Eva,  replying  "  Well,  one  does,  anyhow,  leave  a 
margin  for  the  pretext,  you  know  ! "  made  him, 
for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  wonder  whether  she 
were  not  more  magnificent  than  even  he  had  ever 
6 


THE  MOTE 

given  her  credit  for  being.  Perhaps  it  was  to  test 
this  theory,  or  perhaps  merely  to  gain  time,  that 
he  now  raised  himself  to  his  knees,  and,  leaning 
with  outstretched  arm  towards  the  foot  of  his 
bed,  made  as  though  to  touch  the  stocking  which 
Santa  Glaus  had,  overnight,  left  dangling  there. 
His  posture,  as  he  stared  obliquely  at  Eva,  with 
a  sort  of  beaming  defiance,  recalled  to  him  some- 
thing seen  in  an  "illustration.""  This  reminis- 
cence, however — if  such  it  was,  save  in  the  scarred, 
the  poor  dear  old  woebegone  and  so  very  beguil- 
ingly  not  refractive  mirror  of  the  moment — took 
a  peculiar  twist  from  Eva^s  behaviour.  She  had, 
with  startling  suddenness,  sat  bolt  upright,  and 
looked  to  him  as  if  she  were  overhearing  some 
tragedy  at  the  other  end  of  the  wire,  where,  in 
the  nature  of  things,  she  was  unable  to  arrest  it. 
The  gaze  she  fixed  on  her  extravagant  kinsman 
was  of  a  kind  to  make  him  wonder  how  he  con- 
trived to  remain,  as  he  beautifully  did.  rigid. 
His  prop  was  possibly  the  reflection  that  flashed 
on  him  that,  if  she  abounded  in  attenuations,  well, 
hang  it  all,  so  did  he !  It  was  simply  a  difference 
of  plane.  Readjust  the  "  values,"  as  painters  say, 
and  there  you  were !  He  was  to  feel  that  he  was 
only  too  crudely  "  there "  when,  leaning  further 
7 


A  CHRISTMAS  GARLAND 

forward,  he  laid  a  chubby  forefinger  on  the 
stocking,  causing  that  receptacle  to  rock  ponder- 
ously to  and  fro.  This  effect  was  more  expected 
than  the  tears  which  started  to  Eva's  eyes,  and 
the  intensity  with  which  "Don't  you,"  she 
exclaimed,  "  see  ?  " 

"  The  mote  in  the  middle  distance  ?  "  he  asked. 
"  Did  you  ever,  my  dear,  know  me  to  see  anything 
else  ?  I  tell  you  it  blocks  out  everything.  It's  a 
cathedral,  it's  a  herd  of  elephants,  it's  the  whole 
habitable  globe.  Oh,  it's,  believe  me,  of  an 
obsessiveness ! "  But  his  sense  of  the  one  thing 
it  didrft  block  out  from  his  purview  enabled  him 
to  launch  at  Eva  a  speculation  as  to  just  how  far 
Santa  Glaus  had,  for  the  particular  occasion,  gone. 
The  gauge,  for  both  of  them,  of  this  seasonable 
distance  seemed  almost  blatantly  suspended  in  the 
silhouettes  of  the  two  stockings.  Over  and  above 
the  basis  of  (presumably)  sweetmeats  in  the  toes 
and  heels,  certain  extrusions  stood  for  a  very 
plenary  fulfilment  of  desire.  And,  since  Eva  had 
set  her  heart  on  a  doll  of  ample  proportions  and 
practicable  eyelids — had  asked  that  most  admir- 
able of  her  sex,  their  mother,  for  it  with  not  less 
directness  than  he  himself  had  put  into  his 
demand  for  a  sword  and  helmet — her  coyness  now 
8 


THE  MOTE 

struck  Keith  as  lying  near  to,  at  indeed  a  hardly 
measurable  distance  from,  the  border-line  of  his 
patience.  If  she  didn't  want  the  doll,  why  the 
deuce  had  she  made  such  a  point  of  getting  it  ? 
He  was  perhaps  on  the  verge  of  putting  this 
question  to  her,  when,  waving  her  hand  to 
include  both  stockings,  she  said  "  Of  course, 
my  dear,  you  do  see.  There  they  are,  and 
you  know  I  know  you  know  we  wouldn't,  either 
of  us,  dip  a  finger  into  them."  With  a 
vibrancy  of  tone  that  seemed  to  bring  her  voice 
quite  close  to  him,  "  One  doesn't,""  she  added, 
"violate  the  shrine — pick  the  pearl  from  the 
shell !  " 

Even  had  the  answering  question  "  Doesn't  one 
just  ?"  which  for  an  instant  hovered  on  the  tip  of 
his  tongue,  been  uttered,  it  could  not  have 
obscured  for  Keith  the  change  which  her  mag- 
nificence had  wrought  in  him.  Something, 
perhaps,  of  the  bigotry  of  the  convert  was  already 
discernible  in  the  way  that,  averting  his  eyes,  he 
said  "  One  doesn't  even  peer."  As  to  whether,  in 
the  years  that  have  elapsed  since  he  said  this 
either  of  our  friends  (now  adult)  has,  in  fact, 
"  peered,"  is  a  question  which,  whenever  I  call  at 
the  house,  I  am  tempted  to  put  to  one  or 
9 


A  CHRISTMAS  GARLAND 

other  of  them.  But  any  regret  I  may  feel  in  my 
invariable  failure  to  "  come  up  to  the  scratch  "  of 
yielding  to  this  temptation  is  balanced,  for  me, 
by  my  impression — my  sometimes  all  but  throned 
and  anointed  certainty  —  that  the  answer,  if 
vouchsafed,  would  be  in  the  negative. 


10 


P.C.,  X,  36 

By 

R*D**RD  K*PL*NG 


P.C.,   X,   36 


Then  it's  collar  'im  tight, 

In  the  name  o'  the  Lawd  ! 
'Ustle  'im,  shake  'im  till  'e's  sick  ! 

Wot,  'e  would,  would  'e  ?     Well, 

Then  yer've  got  ter  give  'im  'Ell, 
An'  it's  trunch,  trunch,  truncheon  does  the  trick 

POLICE  STATION  DITTIES. 


I  HAD  spent  Christmas  Eve  at  the  Club, 
listening  to  a  grand  pow-wow  between  certain 
of  the  choicer  sons  of  Adam.  Then  Slushby  had 
cut  in.  Slushby  is  one  who  writes  to  newspapers 
and  is  theirs  obediently  "  HUMANITARIAN."  When 
Slushby  cuts  in,  men  remember  they  have  to  be 
up  early  next  morning. 

Sharp  round  a  corner  on  the  way  home,  I 
collided  with  something  firmer  than  the  regula- 
tion pillar-box.  I  righted  myself  after  the 
recoil  and  saw  some  stars  that  were  very 
pretty  indeed.  Then  I  perceived  the  nature  of 
the  obstruction. 

"Evening,  Judlip,"  I  said  sweetly,  when  I  had 
collected  my  hat  from  the  gutter.  "  Have  I  broken 
the  law,  Judlip  ?     If  so,  I'll  go  quiet." 
13 


A  CHRISTMAS  GARLAND 

"  Time  yer  was  in  bed,""  grunted  X,  36.  "  Yer 
Ma'll  be  lookin'  out  for  yer." 

This  from  the  friend  of  my  bosom !  It  hurt. 
Many  were  the  night-beats  I  had  been  privileged 
to  walk  with  Judlip,  imbibing  curious  lore  that 
made  glad  the  civilian  heart  of  me.  Seven  whole 
8x5  inch  note-books  had  I  pitmanised  to  the 
brim  with  Judlip.  And  now  to  be  repulsed  as 
one  of  the  uninitiated  !  It  hurt  horrid. 

There  is  a  thing  called  Dignity.  Small  boys 
sometimes  stand  on  it.  Then  they  have  to  be 
kicked.  Then  they  get  down,  weeping.  I  don't 
stand  on  Dignity. 

"  What's  wrong,  Judlip  ? "  I  asked,  more  sweetly 
than  ever.  "  Drawn  a  blank  to-night  ? " 

"  Yuss.  Drawn  a  blank  blank  blank.  'A vent 
'ad  so  much  as  a  kick  at  a  lorst  dorg.  Christmas 
Eve  ain't  wot  it  was."  I  felt  for  my  note-book. 
"  Lawd  !  I  remembers  the  time  when  the  drunks 
and  disorderlies  down  this  street  was  as  thick  as 
flies  on  a  fly-paper.  One  just  picked  'em  orf  with 
one's  finger  and  thumb.  A  bloomin'  battew,  that's 
wot  it  wos." 

"  The  night's  yet  young,  Judlip,"  I  insinuated, 
with  a  jerk  of  my  thumb  at  the  flaring  windows  of 
the  "  Rat  and  Blood  Hound."  At  that  moment 
14 


P.C.,  X,  36 

the  saloon-door  swung  open,  emitting  a  man  and 
woman  who  walked  with  linked  arms  and  exceeding 
great  care. 

Judlip  eyed  them  longingly  as  they  tacked  up 
the  street.  Then  he  sighed.  Now,  when  Judlip 
sighs  the  sound  is  like  unto  that  which  issues  from 
the  vent  of  a  Crosby  boiler  when  the  cog-gauges 
are  at  260°  F. 

'*  Come,  Judlip  !  "  I  said.  "  Possess  your  soul 
in  patience.  You'll  soon  find  someone  to  make 
an  example  of.  Meanwhile  " — I  threw  back  my 
head  and  smacked  my  lips —  "  the  usual,  Judlip  ?  " 

In  another  minute  I  emerged  through  the 
swing-door,  bearing  a  furtive  glass  of  that  same 
"usual,"  and  nipped  down  the  mews  where  my 
friend  was  wont  to  await  these  little  tokens  of 
esteem. 

"To  the  Majesty  of  the  Law,  Judlip !" 

When  he  had  honoured  the  toast,  I  scooted  back 
with  the  glass,  leaving  him  wiping  the  beads  off  his 
beard-bristles.  He  was  in  his  philosophic  mood 
when  I  rejoined  him  at  the  corner. 

"  Wot  am  I  ?  "  he  said,  as  we  paced  along.     "A 

bloomin'   cypher.     Wofs  the  sarjint  ?     'E's  got 

the  Inspector  over  'im.     Over  above  the  Inspector 

there's  the  Sooprintendent.     Over  above  Mm's  the 

15 


A  CHRISTMAS  GARLAND 

old  red-tape-masticatin'  Yard.  Over  above  that 
there's  the  'Ome  Sec.  Wot's  'e  ?  A  cypher,  like 
me.  Why  ? "  Judlip  looked  up  at  the  stars. 
"  Over  above  'im's  We  Dunno  Wot.  Somethin' 
wot  issues  its  borders  an1  regulations  an1  divisional 
injunctions,  inscrootable  like,  but  peremptory;  an1 
we  'as  ter  see  as  'ow  they're  carried  out,  not 
arskin'  no  questions,  but  each  man  goin'  about  'is 
dooty.' 

" '  'Is  dooty,' "  said  I,  looking  up  from  my 
note-book.  "  Yes,  I've  got  that." 

"Life  ain't  a  bean-feast.  It's  a  'arsh  reality. 
An'  them  as  makes  it  a  bean-feast  'as  got  to  be 
'arshly  dealt  with  accordin'.  That's  wot  the  Force 
is  put  'ere  for  from  Above.  Not  as  'ow  we  ain't 
fallible.  We  makes  our  mistakes.  An'  when  we 
makes  'em  we  sticks  to  'em.  For  the  honour  o' 
the  Force.  Which  same  is  the  jool  Britannia 
wears  on  'er  bosom  as  a  charm  against  hanarchy. 
That's  wot  the  brarsted  old  Beaks  don't  understand. 
Yer  remember  Smithers  of  our  Div  ?  " 

I  remembered  Smithers — well.  As  fine,  up- 
standing, square-toed,  bullet -headed,  clean-living 
a  son  of  a  gun  as  ever  perjured  himself  in  the  box. 
There  was  nothing  of  the  softy  about  Smithers. 
I  took  off  my  billicock  to  Smithers'  memory. 
16 


P.C.,  X,  36 

"  Sacrificed  to  public  opinion  ?  Yuss,"  said 
Judlip,  pausing  at  a  front  door  and  flashing  his 
45  c.p.  down  the  slot  of  a  two-grade  Yale. 
"  Sacrificed  to  a  parcel  of  screamin'  old  women 
wot  ort  ter  'ave  gorn  down  on  their  knees  an1 
thanked  Gawd  for  such  a  protector.  'Ell  be  out 
in  another  'alf  year.  Wot'll  'e  do  then,  pore 
devil  ?  Go  a  bust  on  'is  conduc'  money  an1 
throw  in  'is  lot  with  them  same  hexperts  wot 
'ad  a  'oly  terror  of  'im."  Then  Judlip  swore 
gently. 

"  What  should  you  do,  O  Great  One,  if  ever  it 
were  your  duty  to  apprehend  him  ?  " 

"  Do  ?  Why,  yer  blessed  innocent,  yer  don't 
think  I'd  shirk  a  fair  clean  cop  ?  Same  time,  I 
don't  say  as  'ow  I  wouldn't  'andle  'im  tender  like, 
for  sake  o'  wot  'e  wos.  Likewise  cos  Vd  be  a  stiff 
customer  to  tackle.  Likewise  'cos " 

He  had  broken  off,  and  was  peering  fixedly 
upwards  at  an  angle  of  85°  across  the  moon- 
lit street.  "  Ullo ! "  he  said  in  a  hoarse 
whisper. 

Striking  an  average  between  the  direction  of 
his  eyes — for  Judlip,  when  on  the  job,  has  a 
soul-stirring  squint — I  perceived  someone  in  the 
act  of  emerging  from  a  chimney-pot. 

17  c 


Judlip's  voice  clove  the  silence.  "  Wot  are  yer 
doin'  hup  there  ?  " 

The  person  addressed  came  to  the  edge  of  the 
parapet.  I  saw  then  that  he  had  a  hoary  white 
beard,  a  red  ulster  with  the  hood  up,  and  what 
looked  like  a  sack  over  his  shoulder.  He  said 
something  or  other  in  a  voice  like  a  concertina 
that  has  been  left  out  in  the  rain. 

"  I  dessay,"  answered  my  friend.  "  Just  you 
come  down,  an'  we'll  see  about  that." 

The  old  man  nodded  and  smiled.  Then — as  I 
hope  to  be  saved — he  came  floating  gently  down 
through  the  moonlight,  with  the  sack  over  his 
shoulder  and  a  young  fir-tree  clasped  to  his  chest. 
He  alighted  in  a  friendly  manner  on  the  curb 
beside  us. 

Judlip  was  the  first  to  recover  himself.  Out 
went  his  right  arm,  and  the  airman  was  slung 
round  by  the  scruff  of  the  neck,  spilling  his  sack 
in  the  road.  I  made  a  bee-line  for  his  shoulder- 
blades.  Burglar  or  no  burglar,  he  was  the  best 
airman  out,  and  I  was  muchly  desirous  to  know 
the  precise  nature  of  the  apparatus  under  his 
ulster.  A  back-hander  from  Judlip's  left  caused 
me  to  hop  quickly  aside.  The  prisoner  was 
squealing  and  whimpering.  He  didn't  like 
18 


P.C.,  X,  36 

the  feel  of  Judlip's  knuckles  at  his  cervical 
vertebrae. 

"  Wot  wos  yer  doin'  hup  there  ?  "  asked  Judlip, 
tightening  the  grip. 

"  I'm  S-Santa  Claus,  Sir.     P-please,  Sir,  let  me 

g-go-" 

"  Hold  him,"  I  shouted.     "  He's  a  German." 

"  It's  my  dooty  ter  caution  yer  that  wotever  yer 
say  now  may  be  used  in  hevidence  against  yer,  yer 
old  sinner.  Pick  up  that  there  sack,  an'  come 
along  o'  me." 

The  captive  snivelled  something  about  peace  on 
earth,  good  will  toward  men. 

"Yuss,"  said  Judlip.  "That's  in  the  Noo 
Testament,  ain't  it  ?  The  Noo  Testament  contains 
some  uncommon  nice  readin'  for  old  gents  an' 
young  ladies.  But  it  ain't  included  in  the  librery 
o'  the  Force.  We  confine  ourselves  to  the  Old 
Testament— O.T., 'ot.  An"ot  you'll  get  it.  Hup 
with  that  sack,  an'  quick  march  !  " 

I  have  seen  worse  attempts  at  a  neck-wrench, 
but  it  was  just  not  slippery  enough  for  Judlip. 
And  the  kick  that  Judlip  then  let  fly  was  a  thing 
of  beauty  and  a  joy  for  ever. 

"  Frog's-march    him ! "    I    shrieked,    dancing. 
"  For  the  love  of  heaven,  frog's-march  him  !  " 
19  c  2 


A  CHRISTMAS  GARLAND 

Trotting  by  Judlip's  side  to  the  Station,  I 
reckoned  it  out  that  if  Slushby  had  not  been  at 
the  Club  I  should  not  have  been  here  to  see. 
Which  shows  that  even  Slushbys  are  put  into  this 
world  for  a  purpose. 


20 


OUT  OF  HARM'S  WAY 

By 

A.  C.  B*NS*N 


CHAPTER  XLII. — CHRISTMAS 

MORE  and  more,  as  the  tranquil  years  went 
by,  Percy  found  himself  able  to  draw  a 
quiet  satisfaction  from  the  regularity,  the  even 
sureness,  with  which,  in  every  year,  one  season 
succeeded  to  another.  In  boyhood  he  had  felt 
always  a  little  sad  at  the  approach  of  autumn.  The 
yellowing  leaves  of  the  lime  trees,  the  creeper  that 
flushed  to  so  deep  a  crimson  against  the  old  grey 
walls,  the  chrysanthemums  that  shed  so  prodigally 
their  petals  on  the  smooth  green  lawn — all  these 
things,  beautiful  and  wonderful  though  they  were, 
were  somehow  a  little  melancholy  also,  as  being 
signs  of  the  year's  decay.  Once,  when  he  was  four- 
teen or  fifteen  years  old,  he  had  overheard  a  friend 
of  the  family  say  to  his  father  "  How  the  days  are 
drawing  in  ! " — a  remark  which  set  him  thinking 
deeply,  with  an  almost  morbid  abandonment  to 
gloom,  for  quite  a  long  time.  He  had  not  then 
grasped  the  truth  that  in  exactly  the  proportion 
in  which  the  days  draw  in  they  will,  in  the  fullness 
23 


A  CHRISTMAS  GARLAND 

of  time,  draw  out.  This  was  a  lesson  that  he 
mastered  in  later  years.  And,  though  the  waning 
of  summer  never  failed  to  touch  him  with  the 
sense  of  an  almost  personal  loss,  yet  it  seemed  to 
him  a  right  thing,  a  wise  ordination,  that  there 
should  be  these  recurring  changes.  Those  men 
and  women  of  whom  the  poet  tells  us  that  they 
lived  in  "  a  land  where  it  was  always  afternoon  " — 
could  they,  Percy  often  wondered,  have  felt  quite 
that  thankfulness  which  on  a  fine  afternoon  is  felt 
by  us  dwellers  in  ordinary  climes  ?  Ah,  no ! 
Surely  it  is  because  we  are  made  acquainted  with 
the  grey  sadness  of  twilight,  the  solemn  majesty 
of  the  night-time,  the  faint  chill  of  the  dawn,  that 
we  set  so  high  a  value  on  the  more  meridional 
hours.  If  there  were  no  autumn,  no  winter,  then 
spring  and  summer  would  lose,  not  all  indeed,  yet 
an  appreciable  part  of  their  sweet  savour  for  us. 
Thus,  as  his  mind  matured,  Percy  came  to  be  very 
glad  of  the  gradual  changes  of  the  year.  He 
found  in  them  a  rhythm,  as  he  once  described  it  in 
his  diary ;  and  this  he  liked  very  much  indeed. 
He  was  aware  that  in  his  own  character,  with  its 
tendency  to  waywardness,  to  caprice,  to  disorder, 
there  was  an  almost  grievous  lack  of  this  rhythmic 
quality.  In  the  sure  and  seemly  progression  of 
24 


OUT  OF  HARM'S  WAY 

the  months,  was  there  not  for  him  a  desirable 
exemplar,  a  needed  corrective  ?  He  was  so  liable 
to  moods  in  which  he  rebelled  against  the  per- 
formance of  some  quite  simple  duty,  some 
appointed  task — moods  in  which  he  said  to 
himself  "  H-ng  it !  I  will  not  do  this,"  or  "  Oh, 
b-th-r !  I  shall  not  do  that !  "  But  it  was  clear 
that  Nature  herself  never  spoke  thus.  Even  as  a 
passenger  in  a  frail  barque  on  the  troublous  ocean 
will  keep  his  eyes  directed  towards  some  upstand- 
ing rock  on  the  far  horizon,  finding  thus  inwardly 
for  himself,  or  hoping  to  find,  a  more  stable 
equilibrium,  a  deeper  tranquillity,  than  is  his, 
so  did  Percy  daily  devote  a  certain  portion  of  his 
time  to  quiet  communion  with  the  almanac. 

There  were  times  when  he  was  sorely  tempted 
to  regret  a  little  that  some  of  the  feasts  of  the 
Church  were  "  moveable."  True,  they  moved 
only  within  strictly  prescribed  limits,  and  in 
accordance  with  certain  unalterable,  wholly  justifi- 
able rules.  Yet,  in  the  very  fact  that  they  did 
move,  there  seemed — to  use  an  expressive  slang 
phrase  of  the  day — "  something  not  quite  nice." 
It  was  therefore  the  fixed  feasts  that  pleased 
Percy  best,  and  on  Christmas  Day,  especially, 
he  experienced  a  temperate  glow  which  would 
25 


A  CHRISTMAS  GARLAND 

have  perhaps  surprised  those  who  knew  him  only 
slightly. 

By  reason  of  the  athletic  exercises  of  his  earlier 
years,  Percy  had  retained  in  middle  life  a  certain 
lightness  and  firmness  of  tread ;  and  this  on 
Christmas  morning,  between  his  rooms  and  the 
Cathedral,  was  always  so  peculiarly  elastic  that  he 
might  almost  have  seemed  to  be  rather  running 
than  walking.  The  ancient  fane,  with  its  soarings 
of  grey  columns  to  the  dimness  of  its  embowed 
roof,  the  delicate  traceries  of  the  organ  screen,  the 
swelling  notes  of  the  organ,  the  mellow  shafts  of 
light  filtered  through  the  stained-glass  windows 
whose  hues  were  as  those  of  emeralds  and  rubies 
and  amethysts,  the  stainless  purity  of  the  surplices 
of  clergy  and  choir,  the  sober  richness  of  Sunday 
bonnets  in  the  transept,  the  faint  yet  heavy 
fragrance  exhaled  from  the  hot-water  pipes — all 
these  familiar  things,  appealing,  as  he  sometimes 
felt,  almost  too  strongly  to  that  sensuous  side  of 
his  nature  which  made  him  so  susceptible  to  the 
paintings  of  Mr.  Leader,  of  Sir  Luke  Fildes,  were 
on  Christmas  morning  more  than  usually  affecting 
by  reason  of  that  note  of  quiet  joyousness,  of 
peace  and  good  will,  that  pervaded  the  lessons  of 
the  day,  the  collect,  the  hymns,  the  sermon. 
26 


OUT  OF  HARM'S  WAY 

It  was  this  spiritual  aspect  of  Christmas  that 
Percy  felt  to  be  hardly  sufficiently  regarded,  or  at 
least  dwelt  on,  nowadays,  arid  he  sometimes  won- 
dered whether  the  modern  Christmas  had  not 
been  in  some  degree  inspired  and  informed  by 
Charles  Dickens.  He  had  for  that  writer  a  very 
sincere  admiration,  though  he  was  inclined  to 
think  that  his  true  excellence  lay  not  so  much  in 
faithful  portrayal  of  the  life  of  his  times,  or  in 
gift  of  sustained  narration,  or  in  those  scenes  of 
pathos  which  have  moved  so  many  hearts  in  so 
many  quiet  homes,  as  in  the  power  of  inventing 
highly  fantastic  figures,  such  as  Mr.  Micawber  or 
Mr.  Pickwick.  This  view  Percy  knew  to  be 
somewhat  heretical,  and,  constitutionally  averse 
from  the  danger  of  being  suspected  of  "  talking 
for  effect,"  he  kept  it  to  himself;  but,  had  anyone 
challenged  him  to  give  his  opinion,  it  was  thus 
that  he  would  have  expressed  himself.  In  regard 
to  Christmas,  he  could  not  help  wishing  that 
Charles  Dickens  had  laid  more  stress  on  its 
spiritual  element.  It  was  right  that  the  feast 
should  be  an  occasion  for  good  cheer,  for  the 
savoury  meats,  the  steaming  bowl,  the  blazing  log, 
the  traditional  games.  But  was  not  the  modem 
world,  with  its  almost  avowed  bias  towards 
27 


A  CHRISTMAS  GARLAND 

materialism,  too  little  apt  to  think  of  Christmas 
as  also  a  time  for  meditation,  for  taking  stock, 
as  it  were,  of  the  things  of  the  soul  ?  Percy  had 
heard  that  in  London  nowadays  there  was  a  class 
of  people  who  sate  down  to  their  Christmas 
dinners  in  public  hotels.  He  did  not  condemn 
this  practice.  He  never  condemned  a  thing,  but 
wondered,  rather,  whether  it  were  right,  and  could 
not  help  feeling  that  somehow  it  was  not.  In  the 
course  of  his  rare  visits  to  London  he  had  more 
than  once  been  inside  of  one  of  the  large  new 
hotels  that  had  sprung  up — these  "  great  caravan- 
series,"  as  he  described  them  in  a  letter  to  an  old 
school-fellow  who  had  been  engaged  for  many 
years  in  Chinese  mission  work.  And  it  seemed  to 
him  that  the  true  spirit  of  Christmas  could  hardly 
be  acclimatised  in  such  places,  but  found  its 
proper  resting-place  in  quiet,  detached  homes, 
where  were  gathered  together  only  those  connected 
with  one  another  by  ties  of  kinship,  or  of  long 
and  tested  friendship. 

He  sometimes  blamed  himself  for  having  tended 
more  and  more,  as  the  quiet,  peaceful,  tranquil 
years  went  by,  to  absent  himself  from  even  those 
small  domestic  gatherings.  And  yet,  might  it  not 
be  that  his  instinct  for  solitude  at  this  season  was  a 
28 


OUT  OF  HARM'S  WAY 

right  instinct,  at  least  for  him,  and  that  to  run 
counter  to  it  would  be  in  some  degree  unacceptable 
to  the  Power  that  fashioned  us  ?  Thus  he  allowed 
himself  to  go,  as  it  were,  his  own  way.  After 
morning  service,  he  sate  down  to  his  Christmas 
fare  alone,  and  then,  when  the  simple  meal  was 
over,  would  sit  and  think  in  his  accustomed 
chair,  falling  perhaps  into  one  of  those  quiet  dozes 
from  which,  because  they  seemed  to  be  so  natural 
a  result,  so  seemly  a  consummation,  of  his 
thoughts,  he  did  not  regularly  abstain.  Later, 
he  sallied  forth,  with  a  sense  of  refreshment,  for  a 
brisk  walk  among  the  fens,  the  sedges,  the  hedge- 
rows, the  reed-fringed  pools,  the  pollard  willows 
that  would  in  due  course  be  putting  forth  their 
tender  shoots  of  palest  green.  And  then,  once 
more  in  his  rooms,  with  the  curtains  drawn  and  the 
candles  lit,  he  would  turn  to  his  book-shelves  and 
choose  from  among  them  some  old  book  that  he 
knew  and  loved,  or  maybe  some  quite  new  book 
by  that  writer  whose  works  were  most  dear  to 
him  because  in  them  he  seemed  always  to  know  so 
precisely  what  the  author  would  say  next,  and 
because  he  found  in  their  fine-spun  repetitions  a 
singular  repose,  a  sense  of  security,  an  earnest  of 
calm  and  continuity,  as  though  he  were  reading 
29 


A  CHRISTMAS  GARLAND 

over  again  one  of  those  wise  copy-books  that  he 
had  so  loved  in  boyhood,  or  were  listening  to  the 
sounds  made  on  a  piano  by  some  modest,  very 
conscientious  young  girl  with  a  pale  red  pig-tail, 
practising  her  scales,  very  gently,  hour  after  hour, 
next  door. 


30 


PERKINS    AND 
MANKIND 

By 

H.  G.  W*LLS 


PERKINS    AND    MANKIND 

CHAFFER  XX 

§1 

IT  was  the  Christmas  party  at  Heighten  that 
was  one  of  the  turning-points  in  Perkins1  life. 
The  Duchess  had  sent  him  a  three-page  wire  in 
the  hyperbolical  style  of  her  class,  conveying  a 
vague  impression  that  she  and  the  Duke  had 
arranged  to  commit  suicide  together  if  Perkins 
didn't  "  chuck  "  any  previous  engagement  he  had 
made.  And  Perkins  had  felt  in  a  slipshod  sort 
of  way — for  at  this  period  he  was  incapable  of 
ordered  thought — he  might  as  well  be  at  Heighten 
as  anywhere  .... 

The  enormous  house  was  almost  full.  There 
must  have  been  upwards  of  fifty  people  sitting 
down  to  every  meal.  Many  of  these  were  members 
of  the  family.  Perkins  was  able  to  recognise 
them  by  their  unconvoluted  ears — the  well-known 
Grifford  ear,  transmitted  from  one  generation  to 
another.  For  the  rest  there  were  the  usual  lot 
33  D 


A  CHRISTMAS  GARLAND 

from  the  Front  Benches  and  the  Embassies. 
Evesham  was  there,  clutching  at  the  lapels  of  his 
coat ;  and  the  Prescotts — he  with  his  massive 
mask  of  a  face,  and  she  with  her  quick,  hawk-like 
ways,  talking  about  two  things  at  a  time  ;  old 
Tommy  Strickland,  with  his  monocle  and  his 
dropped  gX  telling  you  what  he  had  once  said  to 
Mr.  Disraeli ;  Boubou  Seaforth  and  his  American 
wife ;  John  Pirram,  ardent  and  elegant,  spouting 
old  French  lyrics  ;  and  a  score  of  others. 

Perkins  had  got  used  to  them  by  now.  He  no 
longer  wondered  what  they  were  "  up  to,"  for  he 
knew  they  were  up  to  nothing  whatever.  He 
reflected,  while  he  was  dressing  for  dinner  on 
Christmas  night,  how  odd  it  was  he  had  ever 
thought  of  Using  them.  He  might  as  well  have 
hoped  to  Use  the  Dresden  shepherds  and 
shepherdesses  that  grinned  out  in  the  last  stages 
of  refinement  at  him  from  the  glazed  cabinets  in 
the  drawing-rooms  ....  Or  the  Labour 
Members  themselves  .... 

True  there  was  Evesham.  He  had  shown  an 
exquisitely  open  mind  about  the  whole  thing. 
He  had  at  once  grasped  the  underlying  principles, 
thrown  out  some  amazingly  luminous  suggestions. 
Oh  yes,  Evesham  was  a  statesman,  right  enough. 
34 


PERKINS  AND  MANKIND 

But  had  even  he  ever  really  believed  in  the  idea 
of  a  Provisional  Government  of  England  by 
the  Female  Foundlings  ? 

To  Perkins  the  whole  thing  had  seemed  so 
simple,  so  imminent  —  a  thing  that  needed  only  a 
little  general  good-will  to  bring  it  about.  And 
now  .  .  .  Suppose  his  Bill  had  passed  its 
Second  Reading,  suppose  it  had  become  Law, 
would  this  poor  old  England  be  by  way  of 
functioning  decently  —  after  all  ?  Foundlings 
were  sometimes  naughty.  .  .  . 

What  was  the  matter  with  the  whole  human 
race?  He  remembered  again  those  words  of 
Scragson's  that  had  had  such  a  depressing  effect 
on  him  at  the  Cambridge  Union  —  "  Look  here, 
you  know  !  It's  all  a  huge  nasty  mess,  and  we're 
trying  to  swab  it  up  with  a  pocket  handkerchief." 
Well,  he'd  given  up  trying  to  do  that.  .  .  . 


During  dinner  his  eyes  wandered  furtively  up 
and  down  the  endless  ornate  table,  and  he  felt  he 
had  been,  in  a  sort  of  way,  right  in  thinking  these 
people  were  the  handiest  instrument  to  prise  open 
the  national  conscience  with.  The  shining  red 
faces  of  the  men,  the  shining  white  necks  and 
35  D  2 


A  CHRISTMAS  GARLAND 

arms  of  the  women,  the  fearless  eyes,  the  general 
free-and-easiness  and  spaciousness,  the  look  of  late 
hours  counteracted  by  fresh  air  and  exercise  and 
the  best  things  to  eat  and  drink — what  mightn't 
be  made  of  these  people,  if  they'd  only  Submit  ? 

Perkins  looked  behind  them,  at  the  solemn 
young  footmen  passing  and  repassing,  noiselessly, 
in  blue  and  white  liveries.  They  had  Submitted. 
And  it  was  just  because  they  had  been  able  to 
that  they  were  no  good. 

"  Damn  !  "  said  Perkins,  under  his  breath. 


One  of  the  big  conifers  from  the  park  had  been 
erected  in  the  hall,  and  this,  after  dinner,  was 
found  to  be  all  lighted  up  with  electric  bulbs  and 
hung  with  packages  in  tissue  paper. 

The  Duchess  stood,  a  bright,  feral  figure,  dis- 
tributing these  packages  to  the  guests.  Perkins"1 
name  was  called  out  in  due  course  and  the  package 
addressed  to  him  was  slipped  into  his  hand.  He 
retired  with  it  into  a  corner.  Inside  the  tissue- 
paper  was  a  small  morocco  leather  case.  Inside 
that  was  a  set  of  diamond  and  sapphire  sleeve- 
links — large  ones. 

36 


PERKINS  AND  MANKIND 

He  stood  looking  at  them,  blinking  a  little. 

He  supposed  he  must  put  them  on.  But  some- 
thing in  him,  some  intractably  tough  bit  of  his 
old  self,  rose  up  protesting — frantically. 

If  he  couldn't  Use  these  people,  at  least  they 
weren't  going  to  Use  him  ! 

"  No,  damn  it ! "  he  said  under  his  breath,  and, 
thrusting  the  case  into  his  pocket,  slipped  away 
unobserved. 


§4. 

He  Hung  himself  into  a  chair  in  his  bedroom 
and  puffed  a  blast  of  air  from  his  lungs.  .  .  . 
Yes,  it  had  been  a  narrow  escape.  He  knew  that 
if  he  had  put  those  beastly  blue  and  white  things 
on  he  would  have  been  a  lost  soul.  .  .  . 

"You've  got  to  pull  yourself  together,  d'you 
hear  ?  "  he  said  to  himself.  "  You've  got  to  do 
a  lot  of  clear,  steady,  merciless  thinking — now, 
to-night.  You've  got  to  persuade  yourself  some- 
how that,  Foundlings  or  no  Foundlings,  this 
regeneration  of  mankind  business  may  still  be  set 
going — and  by  you" 

He  paced  up  and  down  the  room,  fuming? 
How  recapture  the  generous  certitudes  that  had 
37 


A  CHRISTMAS  GARLAND 

one  by  one  been  slipping  away  from  him  ?  He 
found  himself  staring  vacantly  at  the  row  of 
books  on  the  little  shelf  by  his  bed.  '  One  of  them 
seemed  suddenly  to  detach  itself  —  he  could 
almost  have  sworn  afterwards  that  he  didn't 
reach  out  for  it,  but  that  it  hopped  down  into 
his  hand.  .  .  . 

"  Sitting  Up  For  The  Dawn  "  !  It  was  one  of 
that  sociological  series  by  which  H.  G.  W*lls  had 
first  touched  his  soul  to  finer  issues  when  he  was 
at  the  'Varsity. 

He  opened  it  with  tremulous  fingers.  Could  it 
re-exert  its  old  sway  over  him  now  ? 

The  page  he  had  opened  it  at  was  headed 
"  General  Cessation  Day,"  and  he  began  to 
read.  .  .  . 

"The  re-casting  of  the  calendar  on  a  decimal 
basis  seems  a  simple  enough  matter  at  first  sight. 
But  even  here  there  are  details  that  will  have  to 
be  thrashed  out.  .  .  . 

"  Mr.  Edgar  Dibbs,  in  his  able  pamphlet  '  Ten 
to  the  Rescue,' l  advocates  a  twenty-hour  day,  and 
has  drawn  up  an  ingenious  scheme  for  accelerating 
the  motion  of  this  planet  by  four  in  every  twenty- 

1  Published  by  the  Young  Self-Helpers'  Press,  Ipswich. 


four  hours,  so  that  the  alternations  of  light  and 
darkness  shall  be  re-adjusted  to  the  new  reckoning. 
I  think  such  re-adjustment  would  be  indispensable 
(though  I  know  there  is  a  formidable  body  of 
opinion  against  me).  But  I  am  far  from  being 
convinced  of  the  feasibility  of  Mr.  Bibbs1  scheme. 
I  believe  the  twenty-four  hour  day  has  come  to 
stay — anomalous  though  it  certainly  will  seem  in 
the  ten-day  week,  the  fifty-day  month,  and  the 
thousand-day  year.  I  should  like  to  have  incor- 
porated Mr.  Bibbs1  scheme  in  my  vision  of  the 
Dawn.  But,  as  I  have  said,  the  scope  of  this 
vision  is  purely  practical.  .  .  . 

"  Mr.  Albert  Baker,  in  a  paper l  read  before  the 
South  Brixton  Hebdomadals,  pleads  that  the  first 
seven  days  of  the  decimal  week  should  retain  their 
old  names,  the  other  three  to  be  called  provision- 
ally Huxleyday,  Marxday,  and  Tolstoiday.  But, 
for  reasons  which  I  have  set  forth  elsewhere,2  I 
believe  that  the  nomenclature  which  I  had 
originally  suggested 3 — Aday,  Bday,  and  so  on  to 
Jday — would  be  really  the  simplest  way  out  of 
the  difficulty.  Any  fanciful  way  of  naming  the 

1  "Are  We  Going  Too  Fast  ?  " 

*  "  A  Midwife  For  The  Millennium."    H.  G.  W*lls. 

3  "  How  To  Be  Happy  Though  Yet  Unborn."   H.  G.  W*lls. 

39 


A  CHRISTMAS  GARLAND 

days  would  be  bad,  as  too  sharply  differentiating 
one  day  from  another.  What  we  must  strive  for 
in  the  Dawn  is  that  every  day  shall  be  as  nearly 
as  possible  like  every  other  day.  We  must  help 
the  human  units — these  little  pink  slobbering 
creatures  of  the  Future  whose  cradle  we  are 
rocking — to  progress  not  in  harsh  jerks,  but  with 
a  beautiful  unconscious  rhythm.  .  .  . 

"  There  must  be  nothing  corresponding  to  our 
Sunday.  Sunday  is  a  canker  that  must  be  cut 
ruthlessly  out  of  the  social  organism.  At  present 
the  whole  community  gets  '  slack ""  on  Saturday 
because  of  the  paralysis  that  is  about  to  fall  on  it. 
And  then  '  Black  Monday  ' ! — that  day  when  the 
human  brain  tries  to  readjust  itself — tries  to 
realise  that  the  shutters  are  down,  and  the  streets 
are  swept,  and  the  stove-pipe  hats  are  back  in 
their  band-boxes.  .  .  . 

"Yet  of  course  there  must  be  holidays.  We 
can  no  more  do  without  holidays  than  without 
sleep.  For  every  man  there  must  be  certain 
stated  intervals  of  repose — of  recreation  in  the 
original  sense  of  the  word.  My  views  on  the 
worthlessness  of  classical  education  are  perhaps 
pretty  well  known  to  you,  but  I  don't  underrate 
the  great  service  that  my  friend  Professor  Ezra  K. 
40 


PERKINS  AND  MANKIND 

Higgins  has  rendered  by  his  discovery  l  that  the 
word  recreation  originally  signified  a  re-creating — 
i.e.,2  a  time  for  the  nerve-tissues  to  renew  them- 
selves in.  The  problem  before  us  is  how  to  secure 
for  the  human  units  in  the  Dawn — these  giants  of 
whom  we  are  but  the  foetuses — the  holidays  neces- 
sary for  their  full  capacity  for  usefulness  to  the 
State,  without  at  the  same  time  disorganising  the 
whole  community — and  them. 

"  The  solution  is  really  very  simple.  The  com- 
munity will  be  divided  into  ten  sections — Section 
A,  Section  B,  and  so  on  to  Section  J.  And  to 
every  section  one  day  of  the  decimal  week  will  be 
assigned  as  a  '  Cessation  Day.'  Thus,  those 
people  who  fall  under  Section  A  will  rest  on 
Aday,  those  who  fall  under  Section  B  will  rest  on 
Bday,  and  so  on.  On  every  day  of  the  year  one- 
tenth  of  the  population  will  be  resting,  but  the 
other  nine-tenths  will  be  at  work.  The  joyous 
hum  and  clang  of  labour  will  never  cease  in  the 
municipal  workshops.  .  .  . 

"  You  figure  the  smokeless  blue  sky  above 
London  dotted  all  over  with  airships  in  which  the 

1  "Words  About  Words."     By   Ezra  K.    Higgins,  Pro- 
fessor of    Etymology,   Abraham    Z.    Stubbins    University, 
Padua,  Pa.,  U.S.A.     (2  vols.). 

2  "Idest"— "That  is." 

41 


holiday-making  tenth  are  re-creating  themselves 
for  the  labour  of  next  week — looking  down  a 
little  wistfully,  perhaps,  at  the  workshops  from 
which  they  are  temporarily  banished.  And  here 
I  scent  a  difficulty.  So  attractive  a  thing  will 
labour  be  in  the  Dawn  that  a  man  will  be 
tempted  not  to  knock  off'  work  when  his  Cessation 
Day  comes  round,  and  will  prefer  to  work  for  no 
wage  rather  than  not  at  all.  So  that  perhaps 
there  will  have  to  be  a  law  making  Cessation  Day 
compulsory,  and  the  Overseers  will  be  empowered 
to  punish  infringement  of  this  law  by  forbidding 
the  culprit  to  work  for  ten  days  after  the  first 
offence,  twenty  after  the  second,  and  so  on.  But 
I  don't  suppose  there  will  often  be  need  to  put 
this  law  in  motion.  The  children  of  the  Dawn, 
remember,  will  not  be  the  puny  self-ridden 
creatures  that  we  are.  They  will  not  say,  '  Is  this 
what  I  want  to  do  ?  "*  but  '  Shall  I,  by  doing  this, 
be  (a)  harming  or  (6)  benefiting — no  matter  in  how 
infinitesimal  a  degree — the  Future  of  the  Race  ? ' 

"Sunday  must  go.  And,  as  I  have  hinted,  the 
progress  of  mankind  will  be  steady  proportion- 
ately to  its  own  automatism.  Yet  I  think  there 
would  be  no  harm  in  having  one — just  one — day 
in  the  year  set  aside  as  a  day  of  universal  rest — 


PERKINS  AND  MANKIND 

a  day  for  the  searching  of  hearts.  Heaven — I 
mean  the  Future — forbid  that  I  should  be  hide- 
bound by  dry-as-dust  logic,  in  dealing  with 
problems  of  flesh  and  blood.  The  sociologists  of 
the  past  thought  the  grey  matter  of  their  own 
brains  all-sufficing.  They  forgot  that  flesh  is 
pink  and  blood  is  red.  That  is  why  they  could 
not  convert  people.  .  .  . 

"  The  five-hundredth  and  last  day  of  each  year 
shall  be  a  General  Cessation  Day.  It  will  corres- 
pond somewhat  to  our  present  Christmas  Day. 
But  with  what  a  difference  !  It  will  not  be,  as 
with  us,  a  mere  opportunity  for  relatives  to  make 
up  the  quarrels  they  have  picked  with  each  other 
during  the  past  year,  and  to  eat  and  drink  things 
that  will  make  them  ill  well  into  next  year. 
Holly  and  mistletoe  there  will  be  in  the  Municipal 
Eating  Rooms,  but  the  men  and  women  who  sit 
down  there  to  General  Cessation  High-Tea  will 
be  glowing  not  with  a  facile  affection  for  their 
kith  and  kin,  but  with. communal  anxiety  for  the 
welfare  of  the  great-great-grand-children  of 
people  they  have  never  met  and  are  never  likely 
to  meet. 

"  The  great  event  of  the  day  will  be  the  per- 
formance of  the  ceremony  of  '  Making  Way." 
43 


A  CHRISTMAS  GARLAND 

"  In  the  Dawn,  death  will  not  be  the  haphazard 
affair  that  it  is  under  the  present  anarchic 
conditions.  Men  will  not  be  stumbling  out  of 
the  world  at  odd  moments  and  for  reasons  over 
which  they  have  no  control.  There  will  always, 
of  course,  be  a  percentage  of  deaths  by  misadven- 
ture. But  there  will  be  no  deaths  by  disease. 
Nor,  on  the  other  hand,  will  people  die  of  old 
age.  Every  child  will  start  life  knowing  that 
(barring  misadventure)  he  has  a  certain  fixed 
period  of  life  before  him — so  much  and  no  more, 
but  not  a  moment  less. 

"  It  is  impossible  to  foretell  to  what  average 
age  the  children  of  the  Dawn  will  retain  the  use 
of  all  their  faculties — be  fully  vigorous  mentally 
and  physically.  We  only  know  they  will  be 
'  going  strong  '  at  ages  when  we  have  long  ceased 
to  be  any  use  to  the  State.  Let  us,  for  sake  of 
argument,  say  that  on  the  average  their  faculties 
will  have  begun  to  decay  at  the  age  of  ninety — 
a  trifle  over  thirty-two,  by  the  new  reckoning. 
That,  then,  will  be  the  period  of  life  fixed  for  all 
citizens.  Every  man  on  fulfilling  that  period  will 
avail  himself  of  the  Municipal  Lethal  Chamber. 
He  will  '  make  way  \  .  .  . 

"  I  thought  at  one  time  that  it  would  be  best 
44 


PERKINS  AND  MANKIND 

for  every  man  to  '  make  way  1  on  the  actual  day 
when  he  reaches  the  age-limit.  But  I  see  now 
that  this  would  savour  of  private  enterprise. 
Moreover,  it  would  rule  out  that  element  of 
sentiment  which,  in  relation  to  such  a  thing  as 
death,  we  must  do  nothing  to  mar.  The  children 
and  friends  of  a  man  on  the  brink  of  death  would 
instinctively  wish  to  gather  round  him.  How 
could  they  accompany  him  to  the  lethal  chamber, 
if  it  were  an  ordinary  working-day,  with  every 
moment  of  the  time  mapped  out  for  them  ? 

"  On  General  Cessation  Day,  therefore,  the 
gates  of  the  lethal  chambers  will  stand  open  for 
all  those  who  shall  in  the  course  of  the  past  year 
have  reached  the  age-limit.  You  figure  the  wide 
streets  filled  all  day  long  with  little  solemn 
processions — solemn  and  yet  not  in  the  least 
unhappy.  .  .  .  You  figure  the  old  man  walking 
with  a  firm  step  in  the  midst  of  his  progeny, 
looking  around  him  with  a  clear  eye  at  this  dear 
world  which  is  about  to  lose  him.  He  will  not 
be  thinking  of  himself.  He  will  not  be  wishing 
the  way  to  the  lethal  chamber  was  longer.  He 
will  be  filled  with  joy  at  the  thought  that  he  is 
about  to  die  for  the  good  of  the  race — to  '  make 
way'  for  the  beautiful  young  breed  of  men  and 
45 


A  CHRISTMAS  GARLAND 

women  who,  in  simple,  artistic,  antiseptic  gar- 
ments, are  disporting  themselves  so  gladly  on  this 
day  of  days.  They  pause  to  salute  him  as  he 
passes.  And  presently  he  sees,  radiant  in  the 
sunlight,  the  pleasant  white-tiled  dome  of  the 
lethal  chamber.  You  figure  him  at  the  gate, 
shaking  hands  all  round,  and  speaking  perhaps  a 
few  well-chosen  words  about  the  Future.  . 


§5 

It  was  enough.  The  old  broom  hadn't  lost  its 
snap.  It  had  swept  clean  the  chambers  of 
Perkins"1  soul — swished  away  the  whole  accumula- 
tion of  nasty  little  cobwebs  and  malignant  germs. 
Gone  were  the  mean  doubts  that  had  formed  in 
him,  the  lethargy,  the  cheap  cynicism.  Perkins 
was  himself  again. 

He  saw  now  how  very  stupid  it  was  of  him  to 
have  despaired  just  because  his  own  particular 
panacea  wasn't  given  a  chance.  That  Provisional 
Government  plan  of  his  had  been  good,  but  it 
was  only  one  of  an  infinite  number  of  possible 
paths  to  the  Dawn.  He  would  try  others — scores 
of  others  .... 

He  must  get  right  away  out  of  here — to-night. 
46 


PERKINS  AND  MANKIND 

He  must  have  his  car  brought  round  from  the 
garage — now — to  a  side  door  .... 

But  first  he  sat  down  to  the  writing-table,  and 
wrote  quickly : 

Dear  Duchess, 

I  regret   I   am   called   away    on    urgent 
political  business  .... 

Yours  faithfully 

J.  Perkins  .... 

He  took  the  morocco  leather  case  out  of  his 
pocket  and  enclosed  it,  with  the  note,  in  a  large 
envelope. 

Then  he  pressed  the  electric  button  by  his 
bedside,  almost  feeling  that  this  was  a  signal  for 
the  Dawn  to  rise  without  more  ado  . 


47 


SOME  DAMNABLE 
ERRORS    ABOUT 
CHRISTMAS 

By 

G.  K.  CH*ST*RT*N 


SOME    DAMNABLE    ERRORS 
ABOUT   CHRISTMAS 

THAT  it  is  human  to  err  is  admitted  by  even 
the  most  positive  of  our  thinkers.  Here  we 
have  the  great  difference  between  latter-day 
thought  and  the  thought  of  the  past.  If  Euclid 
were  alive  to-day  (and  I  dare  say  he  is)  he  would 
not  say,  "  The  angles  at  the  base  of  an  isosceles 
triangle  are  equal  to  one  another."  He  would 
say,  "To  me  (a  very  frail  and  fallible  being, 
remember)  it  does  somehow  seem  that  these  two 
angles  have  a  mysterious  and  awful  equality  to 
one  another.*1  The  dislike  of  schoolboys  for 
Euclid  is  unreasonable  in  many  ways ;  but 
fundamentally  it  is  entirely  reasonable.  Funda- 
mentally it  is  the  revolt  from  a  man  who  was 
either  fallible  and  therefore  (in  pretending  to 
infallibility)  an  impostor,  or  infallible  and  there- 
fore not  human. 

Now,  since  it  is  human  to  err,  it  is  always  in 

reference  to  those  things  which  arouse  in  us  the 

most  human  of  all  our  emotions — I    mean    the 

emotion  of  love — that  we  conceive  the  deepest  of 

51  E  2 


A  CHRISTMAS  GARLAND 

our  errors.  Suppose  we  met  Euclid  on  West- 
minster Bridge,  and  he  took  us  aside  and  confessed 
to  us  that  whilst  he  regarded  parallelograms  and 
rhomboids  with  an  indifference  bordering  on 
contempt,  for  isosceles  triangles  he  cherished  a 
wild  romantic  devotion.  Suppose  he  asked  us  to 
accompany  him  to  the  nearest  music-shop,  and 
there  purchased  a  guitar  in  order  that  he  might 
worthily  sing  to  us  the  radiant  beauty  and  the 
radiant  goodness  of  isosceles  triangles.  As  men 
we  should,  I  hope,  respect  his  enthusiasm,  and 
encourage  his  enthusiasm,  and  catch  his  enthu- 
siasm. But  as  seekers  after  truth  we  should  be 
compelled  to  regard  with  a  dark  suspicion,  and  to 
check  with  the  most  anxious  care,  every  fact  that 
he  told  us  about  isosceles  triangles.  For  adora- 
tion involves  a  glorious  obliquity  of  vision.  It 
involves  more  than  that.  We  do  not  say  of  Love 
that  he  is  short-sighted.  We  do  not  say  of  Love 
that  he  is  myopic.  We  do  not  say  of  Love  that 
he  is  astigmatic.  We  say  quite  simply,  Love  is 
blind.  We  might  go  further  and  say,  Love  is 
deaf.  That  would  be  a  profound  and  obvious 
truth.  We  might  go  further  still  and  say,  Love 
is  dumb.  But  that  would  be  a  profound  and 
obvious  lie.  For  love  is  always  an  extraordinarily 
52 


ERRORS  ABOUT  CHRISTMAS 

Huent  talker.     Love  is  a  wind-bag,  filled  with  a 
gusty  wind  from  Heaven. 

It  is  always  about  the  thing  that  we  love 
most  that  we  talk  most.  About  this  thing, 
therefore,  our  errors  are  something  more  than  our 
deepest  errors :  they  are  our  most  frequent  errors. 
That  is  why  for  nearly  two  thousand  years  man- 
kind has  been  more  glaringly  wrong  on  the 
subject  of  Christmas  than  on  any  other  subject. 
If  mankind  had  hated  Christmas,  he  would  have 
understood  it  from  the  first.  What  would  have 
happened  then,  it  is  impossible  to  say.  For  that 
which  is  hated,  and  therefore  is  persecuted,  and 
therefore  grows  brave,  lives  on  for  ever,  whilst 
that  which  is  understood  dies  in  the  moment  of 
our  understanding  of  it — dies,  as  it  were,  in  our 
awful  grasp.  Between  the  horns  of  this  eternal 
dilemma  shivers  all  the  mystery  of  the  jolly 
visible  world,  and  of  that  still  jollier  world  which 
is  invisible.  And  it  is  because  Mr.  Shaw  and  the 
writers  of  his  school  cannot,  with  all  their 
splendid  sincerity  and  acumen,  perceive  that  he 
and  they  and  all  of  us  are  impaled  on  those  horns 
as  certainly  as  the  sausages  I  ate  for  breakfast  this 
morning  had  been  impaled  on  the  cook^s  toasting- 
fork — it  is  for  this  reason,  I  say,  that  Mr.  Shaw 


and  his  friends  seem  to  me  to  miss  the  basic 
principle  that  lies  at  the  root  of  all  things  human 
and  divine.  By  the  way,  not  all  things  that  are 
divine  are  human.  But  all  things  that  are  human 
are  divine.  But  to  return  to  Christmas. 

I  select  at  random  two  of  the  more  obvious 
fallacies  that  obtain.  One  is  that  Christmas 
should  be  observed  as  a  time  of  jubilation.  This 
is  (I  admit)  quite  a  recent  idea.  It  never  entered 
into  the  tousled  heads  of  the  shepherds  by  night, 
when  the  light  of  the  angel  of  the  Lord  shone 
about  them  and  they  arose  and  went  to  do 
homage  to  the  Child.  It  never  entered  into  the 
heads  of  the  Three  Wise  Men.  They  did  not 
bring  their  gifts  as  a  joke,  but  as  an  awful 
oblation.  It  never  entered  into  the  heads  of  the 
saints  and  scholars,  the  poets  and  painters,  of  the 
Middle  Ages.  Looking  back  across  the  years, 
they  saw  in  that  dark  and  ungarnished  manger 
only  a  shrinking  woman,  a  brooding  man,  and  a 
child  born  to  sorrow.  The  philomaths  of  the 
eighteenth  century,  looking  back,  saw  nothing  at 
all.  It  is  not  the  least  of  the  glories  of  the 
Victorian  Era  that  it  rediscovered  Christmas.  It 
is  not  the  least  of  the  mistakes  of  the  Victorian 
Era  that  it  supposed  Christmas  to  be  a  feast. 
54 


ERRORS  ABOUT  CHRISTMAS 

The  splendour  of  the  saying,  "  I  have  piped 
unto  you,  and  you  have  not  danced ;  I  have  wept 
with  you,  and  you  have  not  mourned"  lies  in  the 
fact  that  it  might  have  been  uttered  with  equal 
truth  by  any  man  who  had  ever  piped  or  wept. 
There  is  in  the  human  race  some  dark  spirit  of 
recalcitrance,  alwavs  pulling  us  in  the  direction 
contrary  to  that  in  which  we  are  reasonably 
expected  to  go.  At  a  funeral,  the  slightest  thing, 
not  in  the  least  ridiculous  at  any  other  time,  will 
convulse  us  with  internal  laughter.  At  a  wedding, 
we  hover  mysteriously  on  the  brink  of  tears.  So 
it  is  with  the  modern  Christmas.  I  find  myself 
in  agreement  with  the  cynics  in  so  far  that  I 
admit  that  Christmas,  as  now  observed,  tends  to 
create  melancholy.  But  the  reason  for  this  lies 
solely  in  our  own  'misconception.  Christmas  is 
essentially  a  dies  irce.  If  the  cynics  will  only 
make  up  their  minds  to  treat  it  as  such,  even  the 
saddest  and  most  atrabilious  of  them  will  acknow- 
ledge that  he  has  had  a  rollicking  day. 

This  brings  me  to  the  second  fallacy.  I  refer 
to  the  belief  that  "  Christmas  comes  but  once  a 
year."  Perhaps  it  does,  according  to  the  calendar 
— a  quaint  and  interesting  compilation,  but  of 
little  or  no  practical  value  to  anybody.  It  is  not 
55 


A  CHRISTMAS  GARLAND 

the  calendar,  but  the  Spirit  of  Man  that  regu- 
lates the  recurrence  of  feasts  and  fasts.  Spiritually, 
Christmas  Day  recurs  exactly  seven  times  a  week. 
When  we  have  frankly  acknowledged  this,  and 
acted  on  this,  we  shall  begin  to  realise  the  Day's 
mystical  and  terrific  beauty.  For  it  is  only 
every-day  things  that  reveal  themselves  to  us  in 
all  their  wonder  and  their  splendour.  A  man 
who  happens  one  day  to  be  knocked  down  by  a 
motor-bus  merely  utters  a  curse  and  instructs  his 
solicitor,  but  a  man  who  has  been  knocked  down 
by  a  motor-bus  every  day  of  the  year  will  have 
begun  to  feel  that  he  is  taking  part  in  an  august 
and  soul-cleansing  ritual.  He  will  await  the 
diurnal  stroke  of  fate  with  the  same  lowly  and 
pious  joy  as  animated  the  Hindoos  awaiting 
Juggernaut.  His  bruises  will  be  decorations, 
worn  with  the  modest  pride  of  the  veteran.  He 
will  cry  aloud,  in  the  words  of  the  late  W.  E. 
Henley,  "  My  head  is  bloody  but  unbowed."  He 
will  add,  "  My  ribs  are  broken  but  unbent."" 

I  look  for  the  time  when  we  shall  wish  one 
another  a  Merry  Christmas  every  morning ;  when 
roast  turkey  and  plum-pudding  shall  be  the  staple 
of  our  daily  dinner,  and  the  holly  shall  never  be 
taken  down  from  the  walls,  and  everyone  will 
56 


ERRORS  ABOUT  CHRISTMAS 

always  be  kissing  everyone  else  under  the  mistletoe. 
And  what  is  right  as  regards  Christmas  is  right 
as  regards  all  other  so-called  anniversaries.  The 
time  will  come  when  we  shall  dance  round  the 
Maypole  every  morning  before  breakfast — a  meal 
at  which  hot-cross  buns  will  be  a  standing  dish — 
and  shall  make  April  fools  of  one  another  every 
day  before  noon.  The  profound  significance  of 
All  Fool's  Day — the  glorious  lesson  that  we  are 
all  fools — is  too  apt  at  present  to  be  lost.  Nor  is 
justice  done  to  the  sublime  symbolism  of  Shrove 
Tuesday — the  day  on  which  all  sins  are  shriven. 
Every  day  pancakes  shall  be  eaten,  either  before 
or  after  the  plum-pudding.  They  shall  be  eaten 
slowly  and  sacramentally.  They  shall  be  fried 
over  fires  tended  and  kept  for  ever  bright  by 
Vestals.  They  shall  be  tossed  to  the  stars. 

I  shall  return  to  the  subject  of  Christmas  next 
week. 


57 


A  SEQUELULA  TO 
"THE  DYNASTS" 

By 

TH*M*S  H*RDY 


THE 


The  Void  is  disclosed.     Our  own  Solar  System  is  visible, 

distant  by  some  two  million  miles. 
Enter  the  Ancient  Spirit  and  Chorus  of  the  Years,   the 

Spirit  and  Chorus  of  the  Pities,  the  Spirit  Ironic, 

the   Spirit    Sinister,    Rumours,    Spirit-Messengers, 

and  the  Recording  Angel. 

SPIRIT  OF  THE  PITIES. 
Yonder,  that  swarm  of  things  insectual 
Wheeling  Nowhither  in  Particular — 
What  is  it  ? 

SPIRIT  OF  THE  YEARS. 

That  ?  Oh  that  is  merely  one 
Of  those  innnmerous  congeries 
Of  parasites  by  which,  since  time  began, 
Space  has  been  interfested. 

SPIRIT  SINISTER. 

What  a  pity 
We  have  no  means  of  stamping  out  these  pests ! 

1  This  has  been  composed  from  a  scenario  thrust  on  me  by 
xome  one  else.  My  philosophy  of  life  saves  me  from  sense  of 
responsibility  for  any  of  my  ijtrritings ;  but  I  venture  to  hold 
myself  specially  irresponsible  for  this  one. — TH#M*S  H#RDY. 

61 


A  CHRISTMAS  GARLAND 

SPIRIT  IRONIC. 

Nay,  but  I  like  to  watch  them  buzzing-  round, 
Poor  little  trumpery  ephaeonals  I 

CHORUS  OF  THE  PITIES  (aerial  music). 

Yes,  yes ! 

What  matter  a  few  more  or  less  ? 
Here  and  Nowhere  plus 
Whence  and  Why  makes  Thus. 
Let  these  things  be. 

There's  room  in  the  world  for  tJiem  and  us. 

Nothing  is, 
Out  in  the  vast  immensities 

Where  these  things  flit, 

Irrequisite 

In  a  minor  key 
To  the  tune  of  the  sempiternal  It. 

SPIRIT  IRONIC. 

The  curious  thing  about  them  is  that  some 
Have  lesser  parasites  adherent  to  them — 
Bipedular  and  quadrupedular 
Infinitesimals.     On  close  survey 
You  see  these  movesome.     Do  you  not  recall, 
62 


SEQUELULA  TO  <  THE  DYNASTS  ' 

We  once  went  in  a  party  and  beheld 

All  manner  of  absurd  things  happening 

On  one  of  those  same — planets,  dont  you  call  them  ? 

SPIRIT  OF  THE  YEARS  (screwing  up  his  eyes  at  the 
Solar  System). 

One  of  that  very  swarm  it  was,  if'  I  mistake  not. 

It  had  a  parasite  that  called  itself 

Napoleon.     And  lately,  I  believe, 

Another  parasite  has  had  the  impudence 

To  publish  an  elaborate  account 

Of  our  (for  so  we  deemed  it)  private  visit. 

SPIRIT  SINISTER. 
His  name  ? 

RECORDING  ANGEL. 
One  moment. 

(Turns  over  leaves.) 

Hardy,  Mr.  Thomas, 

Novelist.     Author  of  "  The  Woodlanders? 
'4  Far  from  the  Madding  Crowd,"  "  The  Trum- 
pet Major? 

"  Tess  of  the  D1  Urbervilles?  etcetera, 
Etcetera.     In  1895 

"  Jude  the  Obscure  "  was  published,  and  a  few 
63 


A  CHRISTMAS  GARLAND 

Hasty  reviewers,  having  to  supply 

A  column  for  the  day  of  publication, 

Filled  out  their  space  by  saying  that  there  were 

Several  passages  that  might  have  been 

Omitted  with  advantage.     Mr.  Hardy 

Saw  that  if  that  was  so,  well  then,  of  course, 

Obviously  the  only  thing  to  do 

Was  to  write  no  more  novels,  and  forthwith 

Applied  himself  to  drama,  and  to  Us. 

SPIRIT  IRONIC. 
Let  us  hear  what  he  said  about  Us. 

THE  OTHER  SPIRITS. 

Let's. 

RECORDING    ANGEL    (raising    receiver    of    aerial 
telephone). 

3  oh  4  oh  oh  3  5,  Space.  .  .  .   Hulloa. 

Is  that  the  Superstellar  Library  ? 

Pm  the  Recording  Angel.     Kindly  send  me 

By  Spirit-Messenger  a  copy  of 

"  The  Dynasts  "  by  T.  Hardy.     Thank  you. 

A  pause.     Enter  Spirit-Messenger,  with  copy 
of  "  The  Dynasts." 

Thanks. 
64 


SEQUELULATO  'THE  DYNASTS' 

Exit  Spirit-Messenger.  The  Recording  Angel  reads 
"The  Dynasts"  aloud. 

Just  as  the  reading  draws  to  a  close,  enter  the 
Spirit  of  Mr.  Clement  Shorter  and  Chorus  of 
Subtershorters.  They  are  visible  as  small  grey 
transparencies  swiftly  interpenetrating  the  brains 
of  the  spatial  Spirits. 


SPIRIT  OF  THE  PITIES. 

It  is  a  book  which,  once  you  take  it  up, 
You  cannot  readily  lay  down. 

SPIRIT  SINISTER. 

There  is 
Not  a  dull  page  in  it. 

SPIRIT  OF  THE  YEARS. 

A  bold  conception 

Outcarried  with  that  artistry  Jor  which 
The  author's  name  is  guarantee.      We  have 
No  hesitation  in  commending  to  our  readers 
A  volume  which — 

The    Spirit  of  Mr.    Clement    Shorter    and   Chorus   of 
Subtershorters  are  detected  and  expelled. 

— we  hasten  to  denounce 
As  giving  an  entirely  false  account 
Of  our  impressions. 

65  v 


A  CHRISTMAS  GARLAND 

SPIRIT  IRONIC. 
Hear,  hear ! 

SPIRIT  SINISTER. 

Hear,  hear! 

SPIRIT  OF  THE  PITIES. 

Hear ! 

SPIRIT  OF  THE  YEARS. 

Intensive  vision  has  this  Mr.  Hardy, 
With  a  dark  skill  in  weaving  word-patterns 
Of  subtle  ideographies  that  mark  him 
A  man  of  genius.     So  am  not  I, 
But  a  plain  Spirit,  simple  and  forthright, 
With  no  damned  philosophical  fal-lals 
About  me.      When  I  visited  that  planet 
And  watched  the  animalculae  thereon, 
I  never  said  they  were  "  automata  " 
And  "jackadocks"  nor  dared  describe  their  deeds 
As  "  Lifers  impulsion  by  Incognizance" 
It  may  be  that  those  mites  have  no  free  will, 
But  how  should  I  know  ?  Nay,  how  Mr.  Hardy  ? 
We  cannot  glimpse  the  origin  of  things, 
Cannot  conceive  a  Causeless  Cause,  albeit 
66 


SEQUELULA  TO  'THE  DYNASTS' 

Such  a  Cause  must  have  been,  and  must  be  greater 
Than  we  z&hose  little  wits  cannot  conceive  It. 
"  Incognizance  "  /   Why  deem  incognizant 
An  Infinitely  higher  than  ourselves  ? 
How  dare  define  its  way  with  us  ?     How  know 
Whether  it  leaves  us  free  or  holds  us  bond  ? 

SPIRIT  OF  THE  PITIES. 

Allow  me  to  associate  myself 

With  every  word  thafs  fallen  from  your  lips. 

The  author  of  "  The  Dynasts ""  has  indeed 

Misused  his  undeniably  great  gifts 

In  striving  to  belittle  things  that  are 

Little  enough  already.     I  dorft  say 

That  the  phrenetical  behaviour 

Of  those  aforesaid  animalculae 

Did,  while  we  watched  them,  seem  to  indicate 

Possession  of  free-will.     But,  bear  in  mind, 

We  saw  them  in  peculiar  circumstances — 

At  war,  blinded  with  blood  and  lust  and  fear. 

Is  it  not  likely  that  at  other  times 

Tfiey  are  quite  decent  midgets,  capable 

Of  thinking  for  themselves,  and  also  acting 

Discreetly  on  their  own  initiative, 

Not  drilled  and  herded,  yet  gregarious — 

A  wise  yet  frolicsome  community  ? 

67  F  2 


A  CHRISTMAS  GARLAND 

SPIRIT  IRONIC. 

What  are  these  "  other  times  "  though  ?   I  had 

thought 

Those  midgets  whiled  away  the  vacuous  hours 
After  one  war  in  training  for  the  next. 
And  let  me  add  that  my  contempt  for  them 
Is  not  done  justice  to  by  Mr.  Hardy. 

SPIRIT  SINISTER. 

Nor  mine.  And  I  have  reason  to  believe 
Those  midgets  shone  above  their  average 
When  we  inspected  them. 

A  RUMOUR  (tactfully  intervening). 

Yet  have  I  heard 

(Though  not  on  very  good  authority} 
That  once  a  year  they  hold  a  festival 
And  thereat  all  with  one  accord  unite 
In  brotherly  affection  and  good  will. 

SPIRIT  OB'  THE  YEARS  (to  Recording  Angel). 
Can  you  atithenticate  this  Rumour  ? 

RECORDING  ANGEL. 

Such  festival  they  have,  and  call  it  "  Christmas.'1'' 
68 


SEQUELULA  TO  4THE  DYNASTS' 

SPIRIT  OF  THE  PITIES. 

Then  let  its  go  and  reconsider  them 
Next  "  Christmas" 

SPIRIT  OF  THE  YEAKS  (to  Recording  Angel). 
When  is  that  ? 

RECORDING  AXGEL  (consults  terrene  calendar). 

This  day  three  week  ft. 

SPIRIT  OF  THE  YEARS. 

On  that  day  we  will  re-traject  ourselves. 
Meanwhile,  "'twere  well  we  should  be  posted  up 
In  details  of  this  feast. 

SPIRIT  OF  THE  PITIES  (to  Recording  Angel). 
Aye,  tell  us  more. 

RECORDING  AXGEL. 

I  fancy  you  could  best  find  what  you  need 

In   the   Complete     Works  of  the   late   Charles 

Dickens. 
I  have  them  here. 

SPIRIT  OF  THE  YEARS. 

Read  them  aloud  to  us. 
69 


A  CHRISTMAS  GARLAND 

The  Recording  Angel  reads  aloud  the  Complete  Works 
of  Charles  Dickens. 


RECORDING  ANGEL  (closing  "  Edwin  Drood  "). 
""Fis  Christmas  Morning. 

SPIRIT  OF  THE  YEARS. 

Then  must  we  away. 

SEMICHORUS  I.  OF  YEARS  (aerial  music). 

"*Tis  time  we  press  on  to  revisit 

That  dear  little  planet. 
To-day  of  all  days  to  be  seen  at 

Its  brightest  and  best. 

Now  holly  and  mistletoe  girdle 

Its  halls  and  its  homesteads, 
And  every  biped  is  beaming 

With  peace  and  good  will. 

SEMICHORUS  II. 

With  good  will  and  why  not  with  free  will  ? 

If  clearly  the  former 
May  nest  in  those  bosoms,  then  why  not 

The  latter  as  well? 

70 


SEQUELULA  TO  « THE  DYNASTS' 

Lefs  lay  down  no  laws  to  trip  up  on, 

Our  way  if  in  darkness, 
And  not  but  by  groping  unhampered 

We  win  to  the  light. 

The  Spirit  and  Chorus  of  the  Years  traject  themselves, 
closely  followed  by  the  Spirit  and  Chorus  of  the 
Pities,  the  Spirits  and  Choruses  Sinister  and  Ironic. 
Rumours,  Spirit  Messengers,  and  the  Recording 
Angel. 

There  is  the  sound  of  a  rushing  wind.  The  Solar 
System  is  seen  for  a  few  instants  growing  larger 
and  larger — a  whorl  of  dark,  vastening  orbs  career- 
ing round  the  sun.  All  but  one  of  these  is 
lost  to  sight.  The  convex  seas  and  continents  of 
our  planet  spring  into  prominence. 

The  Spirit  of  Mr.  Hardy  is  visible  as  a  grey  trans- 
parency swiftly  interpenetrating  the  brain  of  the 
Spirit  of  the  Years,  and  urging  him  in  a  particular 
direction,  to  a  particular  point. 

The  Aerial  Visitants  now  hover  in  mid-air  on  the  out- 
skirts of  Casterbridge,  Wessex,  immediately  above 
the  County  Gaol. 


SPIRIT  OF  THE  YEARS. 

First  let  us  watch  the  revelries  within 

This  well-Tcept  castle  whose  great  watts  connote 

A  home  of  the  pre-eminently  blest. 

The  roof  of  the  gaol  becomes  transparent,  and  the  whole 
interior  is  revealed,   like  that  of  a  beehive  under 

glass. 

71 


Warders  are  marching  mechanically  round  the  corridors 
of  white  stone,  unlocking  and  clanging  open  the 
iron  doors  of  the  cells.  Out  from  every  door  steps 
a  convict,  who  stands  at  attention,  his  face  to  the 
wall. 

At  a  word  of  command  the  convicts  fall  into  gangs 
of  twelve,  and  march  down  the  stone  stairs,  out 
into  the  yard,  where  they  line  up  against  the  walls. 

Another  word  of  command,  and  they  file  mechanically, 
but  not  more  mechanically  than  their  warders,  into 
the  Chapel. 

SPIRIT  OF  THE  PITIES. 
Enough ! 

SPIRITS  SINISTER  AND  IRONIC. 
^Tis  more  than  even  we  can  bear. 

SPIRIT  OF  THE  PITIES. 
Would  we  had  never  come ! 

SPIRIT  OF  THE  YEARS. 

Brother,  "'tis  well 

To  have  faced  a  truth  however  hideous, 
However  humbling.     Gladly  I  discipline 
My  pride  by  taking  back  those  pettish  doubt-1,' 
Cast  on  the  soundness  of  the  central  thought 
In  Mr.  Hardy's  drama.     He  was  right, 

73 


SEQUELULA  TO  « THE  DYNASTS' 

Automata  these  animalculae 

Are — -puppets,  pitiable  jackaclocks. 

Be't  as  it  may  elsewhere,  upon  this  planet 

There's  no  free  will,  only  obedience 

To  some  blind,  deaf,  unthinking  despotry 

That  justifies  the  horridest  pessimism. 

Frankly  acknowledging  all  this,  I  beat 

A  quick  but  not  disorderly  retreat. 

He  re-trajects  himself  into  Space,  followed  closely  by 
his  Chorus,  and  by  the  Spirit  and  Chorus  of  the 
Pities,  the  Spirits  Sinister  and  Ironic  with  their 
Choruses,  Rumours,  Spirit  Messengers,  and  the 
Recording  Angel. 


SHAKESPEARE   AND 
CHRISTMAS 

By 

FJUNK  H*RR*S 


SHAKESPEARE    AND 
CHRISTMAS 

THAT  Shakespeare  hated  Christmas — hated 
it  with  a  venom  utterly  alien  to  the  gentle 
heart  in  him — I  take  to  be  a  proposition  that 
establishes  itself  automatically.  If  there  is  one 
thing  lucid-obvious  in  the  Plays  and  Sonnets,  it 
is  Shakespeare's  unconquerable  loathing  of  Christ- 
mas. The  Professors  deny  it,  however,  or  deny 
that  it  is  proven.  With  these  gentlemen  I  will 
deal  faithfully.  I  will  meet  them  on  their  own 
parched  ground,  making  them  fertilise  it  by 
shedding  there  the  last  drop  of  the  water  that 
flows  through  their  veins. 

If  you  find,  in  the  works  of  a  poet  whose 
instinct  is  to  write  about  everything  under  the 
sun,  one  obvious  theme  untouched,  or  touched 
hardly  at  all,  then  it  is  at  least  presumable  that 
there  was  some  good  reason  for  that  abstinence. 
Such  a  poet  was  Shakespeare.  It  was  one  of  the 
divine  frailties  of  his  genius  that  he  must  be  ever 
flying  off  at  a  tangent  from  his  main  theme  to 
unpack  his  heart  in  words  about  some  frivolous- 
77 


A  CHRISTMAS  GARLAND 

small  irrelevance  that  had  come  into  his  head.  If 
it  could  be  shown  that  he  never  mentioned 
Christmas,  we  should  have  proof  presumptive 
that  he  consciously  avoided  doing  so.  But  if  the 
fact  is  that  he  did  mention  it  now  and  again,  but 
in  grudging  fashion,  without  one  spark  of 
illumination — he,  the  arch-illuminator  of  all 
things — then  we  have  proof  positive  that  he 
detested  it. 

I  see  Dryasdust  thumbing  his  Concordance. 
Let  my  memory  save  him  the  trouble.  I  will  reel 
him  off  the  one  passage  in  which  Shakespeare 
spoke  of  Christmas  in  words  that  rise  to  the 
level  of  mediocrity. 

Some  say  that  ever  'gainst  that  season  comes 
Wherein  our  Saviour's  birth  is  celebrated, 
The  bird  of  dawning  singeth  all  night  long  : 
And  then,  they  say,  no  spirit  dare  stir  abroad  ; 
The  nights  are  wholesome  ;  then  no  planets  strike, 
No  fairy  takes,  nor  witch  hath  power  to  charm, 
So  hallowed  and  so  gracious  is  the  time. 

So  says  Marcellus  at  Elsinore.  This  is  the  best 
our  Shakespeare  can  vamp  up  for  the  birthday  of 
the  Man  with  whom  he  of  all  men  had  the  most 
in  common.  And  Dryasdust,  eternally  unable  to 
distinguish  chalk  from  cheese,  throws  up  his 
hands  in  admiration  of  the  marvellous  poetry.  If 
78 


SHAKESPEARE  AND  CHRISTMAS 

Dryasdust  had  written  it,  it  would  more  than 
pass  muster.  But  as  coming  from  Shakespeare, 
how  feeble-cold — aye,  and  sulky-sinister  !  The 
greatest  praiser  the  world  will  ever  know  ! — and 
all  he  can  find  in  his  heart  to  sing  of  Christmas  is 
a  stringing-together  of  old  women's  superstitions  ! 
Again  and  again  he  has  painted  Winter  for  us  as 
it  never  has  been  painted  since — never  by  Goethe 
even,  though  Goethe  in  more  than  one  of  the 
Winter- Lieder  touched  the  hem  of  his  garment. 
There  was  every  external  reason  why  he  should 
sing,  as  only  he  could  have  sung,  of  Christmas. 
The  Queen  set  great  store  by  it.  She  and  her 
courtiers  celebrated  it  year  by  year  with  lusty- 
pious  unction.  And  thus  the  ineradicable  snob  in 
Shakespeare  had  the  most  potent  of  all  induce- 
ments to  honour  the  feast  with  the  full  power 
that  was  in  him.  But  he  did  not,  because  he 
would  not.  What  is  the  key  to  the  enigma  ? 

For  many  years  I  hunted  it  vainly.  The 
second  time  that  I  met  Carlyle  I  tried  to  enlist 
his  sympathy  and  aid.  He  sat  pensive  for  a  while 
and  then  said  that  it  seemed  to  him  "  a  goose- 
quest."  I  replied,  "  You  have  always  a  phrase  for 
everything,  Tom,  but  always  the  wrong  one."  He 
covered  his  face,  and  presently,  peering  at  me 
79 


A  CHRISTMAS  GARLAND 

through  his  gnarled  fingers,  said  "  Mon,  ye're 
recht."  I  discussed  the  problem  with  Renan,  with 
Emerson,  with  Disraeli,  also  with  Cetewayo — poor 
Cetewayo,  best  and  bravest  of  men,  but  intel- 
lectually a  Professor,  like  the  rest  of  them.  It 
was  borne  in  on  me  that  if  I  were  to  win  to  the 
heart  of  the  mystery  I  must  win  alone. 

The  solution,  when  suddenly  it  dawned  on  me, 
was  so  simple-stark  that  I  was  ashamed  of  the 
ingenious-clever  ways  I  had  been  following.  (I 
learned  then — and  perhaps  it  is  the  one  lesson 
worth  the  learning  of  any  man — that  truth  may 
be  approached  only  through  the  logic  of  the 
heart.  For  the  heart  is  eye  and  ear,  and  all 
excellent  understanding  abides  there.)  On 
Christmas  Day,  assuredly,  Anne  Hathaway  was 
born. 

In  what  year  she  was  born  I  do  not  know  nor 
care.  I  take  it  she  was  not  less  than  thirty-eight 
when  she  married  Shakespeare.  This,  however,  is 
sheer  conjecture,  and  in  no  way  important- apt  to 
our  inquiry.  It  is  not  the  year,  but  the  day  of 
the  year,  that  matters.  All  we  need  bear  in 
mind  is  that  on  Christmas  Day  that  woman  was 
born  into  the  world. 

If  there  be  any  doubting  Thomas  among  my 
80 


readers,  let  him  not  be  afraid  to  utter  himself. 
I  am  (with  the  possible  exception  of  Shakespeare) 
the  gentlest  man  that  ever  breathed,  and  I  do  but 
bid  him  study  the  Plays  in  the  light  I  have  given 
him.  The  first  thing  that  will  strike  him  is  that 
Shakespeare's  thoughts  turned  constantly  to  the 
birthdays  of  all  his  Fitton-heroines,  as  a  lover's 
thoughts  always  do  turn  to  the  moment  at  which 
the  loved  one  first  saw  the  light.  "  There  was  a 
star  danced,  and  under  that "  was  born  Beatrice. 
Juliet  was  born  "on  Lammas  Eve."  Marina 
tells  us  she  derived  her  name  from  the  chance  of 
her  having  been  "born  at  sea."  And  so  on, 
throughout  the  whole  gamut  of  women  in  whom 
Mary  Fitton  was  bodied  forth  to  us.  But  mark 
how  carefully  Shakespeare  says  never  a  word  about 
the  birthdays  of  the  various  shrews  and  sluts  in 
whom,  again  and  again,  he  gave  us  his  wife. 
When  and  were  was  born  Queen  Constance,  the 
scold  ?  And  Bianca  ?  And  Doll  Tearsheet,  and 
"  Greasy  Jane "  in  the  song,  and  all  the  rest  of 
them  ?  It  is  of  the  last  importance  that  we 
should  know.  Yet  never  a  hint  is  vouchsafed  us 
in  the  text.  It  is  clear  that  Shakespeare  cannot 
bring  himself  to  write  about  Anne  Hathaway's 
birthday — will  not  stain  his  imagination  by  think- 
81  G 


A  CHRISTMAS  GARLAND 

ing  of  it.  That  is  entirely  human -natural.  But 
why  should  he  loathe  Christmas  Day  itself  with 
precisely  the  same  loathing  ?  There  is  but  one 
answer — and  that  inevitable-final.  The  two  days 
were  one. 

Some  soul-secrets  are  so  terrible  that  the  most 
hardened  realist  of  us  may  well  shrink  from  laying 
them  bare.  Such  a  soul-secret  was  this  of  Shakes- 
peare's. Think  of  it !  The  gentlest  spirit  that 
ever  breathed,  raging  and  fuming  endlessly  in 
impotent-bitter  spleen  against  the  prettiest  of 
festivals !  Here  is  a  spectacle  so  tragic-piteous 
that,  try  as  we  will,  we  shall  not  put  it  from  us. 
And  it  is  well  that  we  should  not,  for  in  our 
plenary  compassion  we  shall  but  learn  to  love  the 
man  the  more. 


[Mr.  Fr*nk  H*rr*&  ii  very  much  a  man  of  genius,  and  I 
should  be  sorry  if  thiv  adumbration  of  his  manner  made  any 
one  suppose  that  I  do  not  rate  his  toritinga  about  Shakespeare 
higher  than  thoxe  of  all  "  the  Profe*sm*s  "  together. — M.  B.] 


SCRUTS 

By 

ARN*LD  B*NN*TT 


SCRUTS 


EMILY  WRACKGARTH  .stirred  the  Christ- 
mas pudding  till  her  right  arm  began  to 
ache.  But  she  did  not  cease  for  that.  She 
stirred  on  till  her  right  arm  grew  so  numb  that  it 
might  have  been  the  right  arm  of  some  girl  at 
the  other  end  of  Bursley.  And  yet  something 
deep  down  in  her  whispered  "  It  is  your  right 
arm  !  And  you  can  do  what  you  like  with  it ! " 

She  did  what  she  liked  with  it.  Relentlessly 
she  kept  it  moving  till  it  reasserted  itself  as  the 
arm  of  Emily  Wrackgarth,  prickling  and  tingling 
as  with  red-hot  needles  in  every  tendon  from  wrist 
to  elbow.  And  still  Emily  Wrackgarth  hardened 
her  heart. 

Presently  she  saw  the  spoon  no  longer  revolving, 
but  wavering  aimlessly  in  the  midst  of  the  basin. 
Ridiculous !  This  must  be  seen  to  !  In  the  down 
of  dark  hairs  that  connected  her  eyebrows  there 
was  a  marked  deepening  of  that  vertical  cleft 
which,  visible  at  all  times,  warned  you  that  here 
was  a  young  woman  not  to  be  trifled  with.  Her 
85 


A  CHRISTMAS  GARLAND 

brain  despatched  to  her  hand  a  peremptory 
message — which  miscarried.  The  spoon  wabbled 
as  though  held  by  a  baby.  Emily  knew  that  she 
herself  as  a  baby  had  been  carried  into  this  very 
kitchen  to  stir  the  Christinas  pudding.  Year 
after  year,  as  she  grew  up,  she  had  been  allowed 
to  stir  it  "  for  luck.11  And  those,  she  reflected, 
were  the  only  cookery  lessons  she  ever  got.  How 
like  Mother ! 

Mrs.  Wrackgarth  had  died  in  the  past  year,  of 
a  complication  of  ailments.1  Emily  still  wore  on 
her  left  shoulder  that  small  tag  of  crape  which  is 
as  far  as  the  Five  Towns  go  in  the  way  of 
mourning.  Her  father  had  died  in  the  year 
previous  to  that,  of  a  still  more  curious  and 
enthralling  complication  of  ailments.2  Jos,  his 
son,  carried  on  the  Wrackgarth  Works,  and  Emily 
kept  house  for  Jos.  She  with  her  own  hand  had 
made  this  pudding.  But  for  her  this  pudding 
would  not  have  been.  Fantastic !  Utterly 
incredible  !  And  yet  so  it  was.  She  was  grown- 
up. She  was  mistress  of  the  house.  She  could 
make  or  unmake  puddings  at  will.  And  yet  she 
was  Emily  Wrackgarth.  Which  was  absurd. 

1  See  "  The  History  of  Sarah  Wrackgarth,"  pp.  345-48-2. 
3  See  "  The  History  of  Sarah  Wrackgarth,"  pp.  231-344. 

86 


SCRUTS 

She  would  not  try  to  explain,  to  reconcile.  She 
abandoned  herself  to  the  exquisite  mysteries  of 
existence.  And  yet  in  her  abandonment  she  kept 
a  sharp  look-out  on  herself,  trying  fiercely  to  make 
head  or  tail  of  her  nature.  She  thought  herself 
a  fool.  But  the  fact  that  she  thought  so  was  for 
her  a  proof  of  adult  sapience.  Odd  !  She  gave 
herself  up.  And  yet  it  was  just  by  giving  herself 
up  that  she  seemed  to  glimpse  sometimes  her  own 
inwardness.  And  these  bleak  revelations  saddened 
her.  But  she  savoured  her  sadness.  It  was  the 
wine  of  life  to  her.  And  for  her  sadness  she 
scorned  herself,  and  in  her  conscious  scorn  she 
recovered  her  self-respect. 

It  is  doubtful  whether  the  people  of  southern 
England  have  even  yet  realised  how  much 
introspection  there  is  going  on  all  the  time  in 
the  Five  Towns. 

Visible  from  the  window  of  the  Wrackgarths 
parlour  was  that  colossal  statue  of  Commerce 
which  rears  itself  aloft  at  the  point  where  Oodge 
Lane  is  intersected  by  Blackstead  Street.  Com- 
merce, executed  in  glossy  Doultonware  by  some 
sculptor  or  sculptors  unknown,  stands  pointing 
her  thumb  over  her  shoulder  towards  the  chimneys 
of  far  Hanbridge.  When  I  tell  you  that  the 
87 


A  CHRISTMAS  GARLAND 

circumference  ol  that  thumb  is  six  inches,  and 
the  rest  to  scale,  you  will  understand  that  the 
statue  is  one  of  the  prime  glories  of  Bursley. 
There  were  times  when  Emily  Wrackgarth  seemed 
to  herself  as  vast  and  as  lustrously  impressive  as 
it.  There  were  other  times  when  she  seemed  to 
herself  as  trivial  and  slavish  as  one  of  those 
performing  fleas  she  had  seen  at  the  Annual 
Ladies1  Evening  Fete  organised  by  the  Bursley 
Mutual  Burial  Club.  Extremist ! 

She  was  now  stirring  the  pudding  with  her  left 
hand.  The  ingredients  had  already  been  mingled 
indistinguishably  in  that  rich,  undulating  mass  of 
tawniness  which  proclaims  perfection.  But  Emily 
was  determined  to  give  her  left  hand,  not  less 
than  her  right,  what  she  called  "  a  doing.1"  Emily 
was  like  that. 

At  mid-day,  when  her  brother  came  home  from 
the  Works,  she  was  still  at  it. 

"  Brought  those  scruts  with  you  ?  "  she  asked, 
without  looking  up. 

"  That's  a  fact,"  he  said,  dipping  his  hand  into 
the  sagging  pocket  of  his  coat. 

It  is  perhaps  necessary  to  explain  what  scruts 
are.  In  the  daily  output  of  every  potbank  there 
are  a  certain  proportion  of  flawed  vessels.  These 
88 


SCRUTS 

are  cast  aside  by  the  foreman,  with  a  lordly 
gesture,  and  in  due  course  are  hammered  into 
fragments.  These  fragments,  which  are  put  to 
various  uses,  are  called  scruts ;  and  one  of  the  uses 
they  are  put  to  is  a  sentimental  one.  The  dainty 
and  luxurious  Southerner  looks  to  find  in  his 
Christmas  pudding  a  wedding-ring,  a  gold 
thimble,  a  threepenny-bit,  or  the  like.  To 
such  fal-lals  the  Five  Towns  would  say  fie. 
A  Christmas  pudding  in  the  Five  Towns  contains 
nothing  but  suet,  flour,  lemon-peel,  cinnamon, 
brandy,  almonds,  raisins — and  two  or  three  scruts. 
There  is  a  world  of  poetry,  beauty,  romance,  in 
scruts — though  you  have  to  have  been  brought  up 
on  them  to  appreciate  it.  Scruts  have  passed 
into  the  proverbial  philosophy  of  the  district. 
"  Kirn's  a  pudden  with  more  scruts  than  raisins 
to  'm  "  is  a  criticism  not  infrequently  heard.  It 
implies  respect,  even  admiration.  Of  Emily 
Wrackgarth  herself  people  often  said,  in  reference 
to  her  likeness  to  her  father,  "  Her's  a  scrut  o1  th' 
owd  basin.11 

Jos  had  emptied  out  from  his  pocket  on  to  the 

table  a  good  three  dozen  of  scruts.     Emily  laid 

aside  her  spoon,  rubbed  the  palms  of  her  hands 

on  the  bib  of  her  apron,  and  proceeded  to  finger 

89 


A  CHRISTMAS  GARLAND 

these  scruts  with  the  air  of  a  connoisseur, 
rejecting  one  after  another.  The  pudding  was  a 
small  one,  designed  merely  for  herself  and  Jos, 
with  remainder  to  "  the  girl " ;  so  that  it  could 
hardly  accommodate  more  than  two  or  three 
scruts.  Emily  knew  well  that  one  scrut  is  as  good 
as  another.  Yet  she  did  not  want  her  brother  to 
feel  that  anything  selected  by  him  would 
necessarily  pass  muster  with  her.  For  his  benefit 
she  ostentatiously  wrinkled  her  nose. 

"  By  the  by,"  said  Jos,  "  you  remember  Albert 
Grapp  ?  Fve  asked  him  to  step  over  from 
Hanbridge  and  help  eat  our  snack  on  Christmas 
Day/' 

Emily  gave  Jos  one  of  her  looks.  "You've 
asked  that  Mr.  Grapp  ?  " 

"  No  objection,  I  hope  ?  He's  not  a  bad  sort. 
And  he's  considered  a  bit  of  a  ladies'  man,  you 
know" 

She  gathered  up  all  the  scruts  and  let  them  fall 
in  a  rattling  shower  on  the  exiguous  pudding. 
Two  or  three  fell  wide  of  the  basin.  These  she 
added. 

"  Steady  on  !  n  cried  Jos.     "  What's  that  for  ?  " 

"That's  for  your  guest,"  replied  his  sister. 
"  And  if  you  think  you're  going  to  palm  me  off' 
90 


SCRUTS 

on  to  him,  or  on  to  any  other  young  fellow,  you  Ye 
a  fool,  Jos  Wrackgarth." 

The  young  man  protested  weakly,  but  she  cut 
him  short. 

"  Don't  think,"  she  said,  "  I  don't  know  what 
you've  been  after,  just  of  late.  Cracking  up  one 
young  sawny  and  then  another  on  the  chance  of 
me  marrying  him  !  I  never  heard  of  such  goings 
on.  But  here  I  am,  and  here  Til  stay,  as  sure  as 
my  name's  Emily  Wrackgarth,  Jos  Wrackgarth  ! " 

She  was  the  incarnation  of  the  adorablv 
feminine.  She  was  exquisitely  vital.  She  exuded 
at  every  pore  the  pathos  of  her  young  undirected 
force.  It  is  difficult  to  write  calmly  about  her. 
For  her,  in  another  age,  ships  would  have  been 
launched  and  cities  besieged.  But  brothers  are  a 
race  apart,  and  blind.  It  is  a  fact  that  Jos  would 
have  been  glad  to  see  his  sister  "  settled " — 
preferably  in  one  of  the  other  four  Towns. 

She  took  up  the  spoon  and  stirred  vigorously. 
The  scruts  grated  and  squeaked  together  around 
the  basin,  while  the  pudding  feebly  wormed  its 
way  up  among  them. 


91 


II. 

Albert  Grapp,  ladies'  man  though  he  was,  was 
humble  of  heart.  Nobody  knew  this  but  himself. 
Not  one  of  his  fellow  clerks  in  dither's  Bank 
knew  it.  The  general  theory  in  Hanbridge  was 
"  Hira's  got  a  stiff  opinion  o1  hisself."  But  this 
arose  from  what  was  really  a  sign  of  humility  in 
him.  He  made  the  most  of  himself.  He  had, 
for  instance,  a  way  of  his  own  in  the  matter  of 
dressing.  He  always  wore  a  voluminous  frock- 
coat,  with  a  pair  of  neatly-striped  vicuna  trousers, 
which  he  placed  every  night  under  his  mattress, 
thus  preserving  in  perfection  the  crease  down  the 
centre  of  each.  His  collar  was  of  the  highest, 
secured  in  front  with  an  aluminium  stud,  to  which 
was  attached  by  a  patent  loop  a  natty  bow  of 
dove-coloured  sateen.  He  had  two  caps,  one  of 
blue  serge,  the  other  of  shepherd's  plaid.  These 
he  wore  on  alternate  days.  He  wore  them  in  a 
way  of  his  own — well  back  from  his  forehead,  so 
as  not  to  hide  his  hair,  and  with  the  peak  behind. 
The  peak  made  a  sort  of  half-moon  over  the  back 
of  his  collar.  Through  a  fault  of  his  tailor,  there 
was  a  yawning  gap  between  the  back  of  his  collar 
and  the  collar  of  his  coat.  Whenever  he  shook 


SCRUTS 

his  head,  the  peak  of  his  cap  had  the  look  of  a 
live  thing  trying  to  investigate  this  abyss.  Dimly 
aware  of  the  effect,  Albert  Grapp  shook  his  head 
as  seldom  as  possible. 

On  wet  days  he  wore  a  mackintosh.  This,  as 
he  did  not  yet  possess  a  great-coat,  he  wore  also, 
but  with  less  glory,  on  cold  days.  He  had  hoped 
there  might  be  rain  on  Christmas  morning.  But 
there  was  no  rain.  "  Like  my  luck,'1  he  said  as 
he  came  out  of  his  lodgings  and  turned  his  steps 
to  that  corner  of  Jubilee  Avenue  from  which 
the  Hanbridge-Bursley  trams  start  every  half- 
hour. 

Since  Jos  Wrackgarth  had  introduced  him  to 
his  sister  at  the  Hanbridge  Oddfellows'  Biennial 
Hop,  when  he  danced  two  quadrilles  with  her,  he 
had  seen  her  but  once.  He  had  nodded  to  her, 
Five  Towns  fashion,  and  she  had  nodded  back  at 
him,  but  with  a  look  that  seemed  to  say  "  You 
needn't  nod  next  time  you  see  me.  I  can  get 
along  well  enough  without  your  nods."  A  frighten- 
ing girl !  And  yet  her  brother  had  since  told  him 
she  seemed  "  a  bit  gone,  like  "  on  him.  Impossible ! 
He,  Albert  Grapp,  make  an  impression  on  the 
brilliant  Miss  Wrackgarth !  Yet  she  had  sent 
him  a  verbal  invite  to  spend  Christmas  in  her  own 
93 


A  CHRISTMAS  GARLAND 

home.  And  the  time  had  come.  He  was  on  his 
way.  Incredible  that  he  should  arrive !  The 
tram  must  surely  overturn,  or  be  struck  by  light- 
ning. And  yet  no  !  He  arrived  safely. 

The  small  servant  who  opened  the  door  gave 
him  another  verbal  message  from  Miss  Wrackgarth. 
It  was  that  he  must  wipe  his  feet  "  well "  on  the 
mat.  In  obeying  this  order  he  experienced  a 
thrill  of  satisfaction  he  could  not  account  for. 
He  must  have  stood  shuffling  his  boots  vigorously 
for  a  full  minute.  This,  he  told  himself,  was  life. 
He,  Albert  Grapp,  was  alive.  And  the  world  was 
full  of  other  men,  all  alive ;  and  yet,  because  thev 
were  not  doing  Miss  Wrackgarth's  bidding,  none 
of  them  really  lived.  He  was  filled  with  a 
vague  melancholy.  But  his  melancholy  pleased 
him. 

In  the  parlour  he  found  Jos  awaiting  him.  The 
table  was  laid  for  three. 

"  So  you're  here,  are  you  ? "  said  the  host, 
using  the  Five  Towns  formula.  "  Emily's  in  the 
kitchen,''  he  added.  "  Happen  she'll  be  here 
directly." 

"  I  hope  she's  tol-lol-ish  ?  "  asked  Albert. 

"  She  is,"  said  Jos.  "  But  don't  you  go  saying 
that  to  her.  She  doesn't  care  about  society  airs 
94 


SCRUTS 

and  graces.  You'll  make  no  headway  if  you 
aren't  blunt."" 

"  Oh,  right  you  are,11  said  Albert,  with  the  air 
of  a  man  who  knew  his  way  about. 

A  moment  later  Emily  joined  them,  still  wear- 
ing her  kitchen  apron.  "  So  you're  here,  are  you  ?  " 
she  said,  but  did  not  shake  hands.  The  servant 
had  followed  her  in  with  the  tray,  and  the  next 
few  seconds  were  occupied  in  the  disposal  of  the 
beef  and  trimmings. 

The  meal  began,  Emily  carving.  The  main 
thought  of  a  man  less  infatuated  than  Albert 
Grapp  would  have  been  "This  girl  can't  cook. 
And  she'll  never  learn  to."  The  beef,  instead  of 
being  red  and  brown,  was  pink  and  white. 
Uneatable  beef!  And  yet  he  relished  it  more 
than  anything  he  had  ever  tasted.  This  beef  was 
her  own  handiwork.  Thus  it  was  because  she  had 
made  it  so  ....  He  warily  refrained  from 
complimenting  her,  but  the  idea  of  a  second 
helping  obsessed  him. 

"  Happen  I  could  do  with  a  bit  more,  like,"  he 
said. 

Emily  hacked  off  the  bit  more  and  jerked  it  on 
to  the  plate  he  had  held  out  to  her. 

"Thanks,"  he  said;  and  then,  as  Emily's  lip 
95 


curled,  and  Jos  gave  him  a  warning  kick  under 
the  table,  he  tried  to  look  as  if  he  had  said 
nothing. 

Only  when  the  second  course  came  on  did  he 
suspect  that  the  meal  was  a  calculated  protest 
against  his  presence.  This  a  Christmas  pudding  ? 
The  litter  of  fractured  earthenware  was  hardly 
held  together  by  the  suet  and  raisins.  All  his 
pride  of  manhood — and  there  was  plenty  of  pride 
mixed  up  with  Albert  Grapp's  humility — dictated 
a  refusal  to  touch  that  pudding.  Yet  he  soon 
found  himself  touching  it,  though  gingerly,  with 
his  spoon  and  fork. 

In  the  matter  of  dealing  with  scruts  there  are 
two  schools — the  old  and  the  new.  The  old  school 
pushes  its  head  well  over  its  plate  and  drops  the 
scrut  straight  from  its  mouth.  The  new  school 
emits  the  scrut  into  the  fingers  of  its  left  hand 
and  therewith  deposits  it  on  the  rim  of  the  plate. 
Albert  noticed  that  Emily  was  of  the  new  school. 
But  might  she  not  despise  as  affectation  in  him 
what  came  natural  to  herself?  On  the  other  hand, 
if  he  showed  himself  as  a  prop  of  the  old  school, 
might  she  not  set  her  face  the  more  stringently 
against  him  ?  The  chances  were  that  whichever 
course  he  took  would  be  the  wrong  one. 
96 


SCRUTS 

It  was  then  that  he  had  an  inspiration — an  idea 
of  the  sort  that  comes  to  a  man  once  in  his  life 
and  finds  him,  likely  as  not,  unable  to  put  it 
into  practice.  Albert  was  not  sure  he  could 
consummate  this  idea  of  his.  He  had  indisputably 
fine  teeth — "  a  proper  mouthful  of  grinders  "  in 
local  phrase.  But  would  they  stand  the  strain  he 
was  going  to  impose  on  them  ?  He  could  but  try 
them.  Without  a  sign  of  nervousness  he  raised 
his  spoon,  with  one  scrut  in  it,  to  his  mouth. 
This  scrut  he  put  between  two  of  his  left-side 
molars,  bit  hard  on  it,  and — eternity  of  that 
moment  ! — felt  it  and  heard  it  snap  in  two. 
Emily  also  heard  it.  He  was  conscious  that  at 
sound  of  the  percussion  she  started  forward  and 
stared  at  him.  But  he  did  not  look  at  her. 
Calmly,  systematically,  with  gradually  diminishing 
crackles,  he  reduced  that  scrut  to  powder,  and 
washed  the  powder  down  with  a  sip  of  beer. 
While  he  dealt  with  the  second  scrut  he  talked  to 
Jos  about  the  Borough  Council's  proposal  to  erect 
an  electric  power-station  on  the  site  of  the  old 
gas-works  down  Hillport  way.  He  was  aware  of 
a  slight  abrasion  inside  his  left  cheek.  No  matter. 
He  must  be  more  careful.  There  were  six  scruts 
still  to  be  negotiated.  He  knew  that  what  he 
97  H 


A  CHRISTMAS  GARLAND 

was  doing  was  a  thing  grandiose,  unique,  epical ; 
a  history-making  thing ;  a  thing  that  would  out- 
live marble  and  the  gilded  monuments  of  princes. 
Yet  he  kept  his  head.  He  did  not  hurry,  nor  did 
he  dawdle.  Scrut  by  scrut,  he  ground  slowly  but 
he  ground  exceeding  small.  And  while  he  did  so 
he  talked  wisely  and  well.  He  passed  from  the 
power-station  to  a  first  edition  of  Leconte 
de  Lisle's  "  Parnasse  Contemporain  "  that  he  had 
picked  up  for  sixpence  in  Liverpool,  and  thence 
to  the  Midland's  proposal  to  drive  a  tunnel  under 
the  Knype  Canal  so  as  to  link  up  the  main-line 
with  the  Critchworth  and  Suddleford  loop-line. 
Jos  was  too  amazed  to  put  in  a  word.  Jos  sat 
merely  gaping — a  gape  that  merged  by  imper- 
ceptible degrees  into  a  grin.  Presently  he  ceased 
to  watch  his  guest.  He  sat  watching  his  sister. 

Not  once  did  Albert  himself  glance  in  her 
direction.  She  was  just  a  dim  silhouette  on  the 
outskirts  of  his  vision.  But  there  she  was, 
unmoving,  and  he  could  feel  the  fixture  of  her 
unseen  eyes.  The  time  was  at  hand  when  he 
would  have  to  meet  those  eyes.  Would  he  flinch  '? 
Was  he  master  of  himself  ? 

The  last  scrut  was  powder.  No  temporising ! 
He  jerked  his  glass  to  his  mouth.  A  moment 
98 


SCRUTS 

later,  holding  out  his  plate  to  her,  he  looked 
Emily  full  in  the  eyes.  They  were  Emily's  eyes, 
but  not  hers  alone.  They  were  collective  eyes — 
that  was  it  !  They  were  the  eyes  of  stark,  staring 
womanhood.  Her  face  had  been  dead  white,  but 
now  suddenly  up  from  her  throat,  over  her  cheeks, 
through  the  down  between  her  eyebrows,  went  a 
rush  of  colour,  up  over  her  temples,  through  the 
very  parting  of  her  hair. 

"  Happen,1'  he  said  without  a  quaver  in  his 
voice,  "  111  have  a  bit  more,  like." 

She  flung  her  arms  forward  on  the  table  and 
buried  her  face  in  them.  It  was  a  gesture  wild 
and  meek.  It  was  the  gesture  foreseen  and  yet 
incredible.  It  was  recondite,  inexplicable,  and 
yet  obvious.  It  was  the  only  thing  to  be  done — 
and  yet,  by  gum,  she  had  done  it. 

Her  brother  had  risen  from  his  seat  and  was 
now  at  the  door.  "  Think  I'll  step  round  to  the 
Works,"  he  said,  "  and  see  if  they  banked  up  that 
furnace  aright." 

NOTE. — The  author  has  in  preparation  a  series  of  volume* 
dealing  with  the  life  of  Albert  and  Emily  Orapp. 


99 


ENDEAVOUR 

By 

J*HN  G*LSW*RTHY 


ENDEAVOUR 

THE  dawn  of  Christmas  Day  found  London 
laid  out  in  a  shroud  of  snow.  Like  a  body 
wasted  by  diseases  that  had  triumphed  over  it  at 
last,  London  lay  stark  and  still  now,  beneath  a 
sky  that  was  as  the  closed  leaden  shell  of  a 
coffin.  It  was  what  is  called  an  old-fashioned 
Christmas. 

Nothing  seemed  to  be  moving  except  the 
Thames,  whose  embanked  waters  flowed  on 
sullenly  in  their  eternal  act  of  escape  to  the  sea. 
All  along  the  wan  stretch  of  Cheyne  Walk  the 
thin  trees  stood  exanimate,  with  not  a  breath  of 
wind  to  stir  the  snow  that  pied  their  soot- 
blackened  branches.  Here  and  there  on  the 
muffled  ground  lay  a  sparrow  that  had  been 
frozen  in  the  night,  its  little  claws  sticking  up 
heavenward.  But  here  and  there  also  those  tinier 
adventurers  of  the  London  air,  smuts,  floated 
vaguely  and  came  to  rest  on  the  snow — signs  that 
in  the  seeming  death  of  civilisation  some  house- 
maids at  least  survived,  and  some  fires  had 
been  lit. 

103 


A  CHRISTMAS  GARLAND 

One  of  these  fires,  crackling  in  the  grate  of  one 
of  those  dining-rooms  which  look  fondly  out  on 
the  river  and  tolerantly  across  to  Battersea,  was 
being  watched  by  the  critical  eye  of  an  aged 
canary.  The  cage  in  which  thie  bird  sat  was 
hung  in  the  middle  of  the  bow-window.  It  con- 
tained three  perches,  and  also  a  pendent  hoop. 
The  tray  that  was  its  floor  had  just  been  cleaned 
and  sanded.  In  the  embrasure  to  the  right  was  a 
fresh  supply  of  hemp-seed;  in  the  embrasure  to 
the  left  the  bath-tub  had  just  been  refilled  with 
clear  water.  Stuck  between  the  bars  was  a  large 
sprig  of  groundsel.  Yet,  though  all  was  thus  in 
order,  the  bird  did  not  eat  nor  drink,  nor  did  he 
bathe.  With  his  back  to  Battersea,  and  his  head 
sunk  deep  between  his  little  sloping  shoulders,  he 
watched  the  fire.  The  windows  had  for  a  while 
been  opened,  as  usual,  to  air  the  room  for  him ; 
and  the  fire  had  not  yet  mitigated  the  chill.  It 
was  not  his  custom  to  bathe  at  so  inclement  an 
hour;  and  his  appetite  for  food  and  drink,  less 
keen  than  it  had  once  been,  required  to  be  whetted 
by  example — he  never  broke  his  fast  before  his 
master  and  mistress  broke  theirs.  Time  had  been 
when,  for  sheer  joy  in  life,  he  fluttered  from  perch 
to  perch,  though  there  were  none  to  watch  him, 
104 


ENDEAVOUR 

and  even  sang  roulades,  though  there  were  none  to 
hear.  He  would  not  do  these  things  nowadays 
save  at  the  fond  instigation  of  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Adrian  Berridge.  The  housemaid  who  ministered 
to  his  cage,  the  parlourmaid  who  laid  the  Ber- 
ridges'  breakfast  table,  sometimes  tried  to  incite 
him  to  perform  for  their  own  pleasure.  But  the 
sense  of  caste,  strong  in  his  protuberant  little 
bosom,  steeled  him  against  these  advances. 

While  the  breakfast-table  was  being  laid,  he 
heard  a  faint  tap  against  the  window-pane. 
Turning  round,  he  perceived  on  the  sill  a  creature 
like  to  himself,  but  very  different — a  creature  who, 
despite  the  pretensions  of  a  red  waistcoat  in  the 
worst  possible  taste,  belonged  evidently  to  the 
ranks  of  the  outcast  and  the  disinherited.  In 
previous  winters  the  sill  had  been  strewn  every 
morning  with  bread-crumbs.  This  winter,  no 
bread-crumbs  had  been  vouchsafed ;  and  the 
canary,  though  he  did  not  exactly  understand 
why  this  was  so,  was  glad  that  so  it  was.  He  had 
felt  that  his  poor  relations  took  advantage  of  the 
Berridges1  kindness.  Two  or  three  of  them,  as 
pensioners,  might  not  have  been  amiss.  But  they 
came  in  swarms,  and  they  gobbled  their  food  in  a 
disgusting  fashion,  not  trifling  coquettishly  with 
105 


A  CHRISTMAS  GARLAND 

it  as  birds  should.  The  reason  for  this,  the 
canary  knew,  was  that  they  were  hungry ;  and  of 
that  he  was  sorry.  He  hated  to  think  how 
much  destitution  there  was  in  the  world ;  and  he 
could  not  help  thinking  about  it  when  samples 
of  it  were  thrust  under  his  notice.  That  was  the 
principal  reason  why  he  was  glad  that  the  window- 
sill  was  strewn  no  more  and  seldom  visited. 

He  would  much  rather  not  have  seen  this 
solitary  applicant.  The  two  eyes  fixed  on  his 
made  him  feel  very  uncomfortable.  And  yet,  for 
fear  of  seeming  to  be  outfaced,  he  did  not  like  to 
look  away. 

The  subdued  clangour  of  the  gong,  sounded  for 
breakfast,  gave  him  an  excuse  for  turning  sud- 
denly round  and  watching  the  door  of  the  room. 

A  few  moments  later  there  came  to  him  a  faint 
odour  of  Harris  tweed,  followed  immediately  by 
the  short,  somewhat  stout  figure  of  his  master — a 
man  whose  mild,  fresh,  pink,  round  face  seemed 
to  find  salvation,  as  it  were,  at  the  last  moment, 
in  a  neatly-pointed  auburn  beard. 

Adrian  Berridge  paused  on  the  threshold,  as 

was  his  wont,  with  closed  eyes  and  dilated  nostrils, 

enjoying  the  aroma  of  complex  freshness  which 

the  dining-room  had  at  this  hour.     Pathetically  a 

106 


ENDEAVOUR 

creature  of  habit,  he  liked  to  savour  the  various 
scents,  sweet  or  acrid,  that  went  to  symbolise  for 
him  the  time  and  the  place.  Here  were  the 
immediate  scents  of  dry  toast,  of  China  tea  of 
napery  fresh  from  the  wash,  together  with  that 
vague,  super-subtle  scent  which  boiled  eggs  give 
out  through  their  unbroken  shells.  And  as  a 
permanent  base  to  these  there  was  the  scent  of 
much-polished  Chippendale,  and  of  bees'-waxed 
parquet,  and  of  Persian  rugs.  To-day,  moreover, 
crowning  the  composition,  there  was  the  delicate 
pungency  of  the  holly  that  topped  the  Queen 
Anne  mirror  and  the  Mantegna  prints. 

Coming  forward  into  the  room,  Mr.  Berridge 
greeted  the  canary.  "  Well,  Amber,  old  fellow," 
he  said,  "  a  happy  Christmas  to  you  ! "  Affection- 
ately he  pushed  the  tip  of  a  plump  white  finger 
between  the  bars.  "  Tweet !  "  he  added. 

"Tweet!"  answered  the  bird,  hopping  to  and 
fro  along  his  perch. 

"  Quite  an  old-fashioned  Christmas,  Amber  !  " 
said  Mr.  Berridge,  turning  to  scan  the  weather. 
At  sight  of  the  robin,  a  little  spasm  of  pain  con- 
tracted his  face.  A  shine  of  tears  came  to  his 
prominent  pale  eyes,  and  he  turned  quickly  away. 
Just  at  that  moment,  heralded  by  a  slight 
107 


A  CHRISTMAS  GARLAND 

fragrance  of  old  lace  and  of  that  peculiar,  almost 
unseizable  odour  that  uncut  turquoises  have,  Mrs. 
Berridge  appeared. 

"  What  is  the  matter,  Adrian  ? v  she  asked 
quickly.  She  glanced  sideways  into  the  Queen 
Anne  mirror,  her  hand  fluttering,  like  a  pale  moth, 
to  her  hair,  which  she  always  wore  braided  in  a 
fashion  she  had  derived  from  Pollaiuolo's  St. 
Ursula. 

"Nothing,  Jacynth — nothing,"  he  answered 
with  a  lightness  that  carried  no  conviction ;  and 
he  made  behind  his  back  a  gesture  to  frighten 
away  the  robin. 

"  Amber  isn't  unwell,  is  he  ? "  She  came 
quickly  to  the  cage.  Amber  executed  for  her  a 
roulade  of  great  sweetness.  His  voice  had  riot 
perhaps  the  fullness  for  which  it  had  been  noted  in 
earlier  years  ;  but  the  art  with  which  he  managed 
it  was  as  exquisite  as  ever.  It  was  clear  to  his 
audience  that  the  veteran  artist  was  hale  and 
hearty. 

But  Jacynth,  relieved  on  one  point,  had  a 
misgiving  on  another.  "This  groundsel  doesn't 
look  very  fresh,  does  it  ? "  she  murmured,  with- 
drawing the  sprig  from  the  bars.  She  rang  the 
bell,  and  when  the  servant  came  in  answer  to  it 
108 


ENDEAVOUR 

said,  "  Oh  Jenny,  will  you  please  bring  up  another 
piece  of  groundsel  for  Master  Amber  ?  I  don't 
think  this  one  is  quite  fresh." 

This  formal  way  of  naming  the  canary  to  the 
servants  always  jarred  on  her  principles  and  on 
those  of  her  husband.  They  tried  to  regard  their 
servants  as  essentially  equals  of  themselves,  and 
lately  had  given  Jenny  strict  orders  to  leave  off' 
calling  them  "  Sir  "  and  "  Ma'am,"  and  to  call  them 
simply  "  Adrian "  and  "  Jacynth."  But  Jenny, 
after  one  or  two  efforts  that  ended  in  faint  giggles, 
had  reverted  to  the  crude  old  nomenclature — as 
much  to  the  relief  as  to  the  mortification  of  the 
Berridges.  They  did,  it  is  true,  discuss  the 
possibility  of  redressing  the  balance  by  calling  the 
parlourmaid  "  Miss."  But,  when  it  came  to 
the  point,  their  lips  refused  this  office.  And  con- 
versely their  lips  persisted  in  the  social  prefix  to 
the  bird's  name. 

Somehow  that  anomaly  seemed  to  them 
symbolic  of  their  lives.  Both  of  them  yearned  so 
wistfully  to  live  always  in  accordance  to  the 
nature  of  things.  And  this,  they  felt,  ought 
surely  to  be  the  line  of  least  resistance.  In  the 
immense  difficulties  it  presented,  and  in  their 
constant  failures  to  surmount  these  difficulties, 
109 


A  CHRISTMAS  GARLAND 

they  often  wondered  whether  the  nature  of  things 
might  not  be,  after  all,  something  other  than 
what  they  thought  it.  Again  and  again  it  seemed 
to  be  in  as  direct  conflict  with  duty  as  with 
inclination  ;  so  that  they  were  driven  to  wonder 
also  whether  what  they  conceived  to  be  duty  were 
not  also  a  mirage — a  marsh-light  leading  them  on 
to  disaster. 

The  fresh  groundsel  was  brought  in  while 
Jacynth  was  pouring  out  the  tea.  She  rose  and 
took  it  to  the  cage ;  and  it  was  then  that  she  too 
saw  the  robin,  still  fluttering  on  the  sill.  With  a 
quick  instinct  she  knew  that  Adrian  had  seen  it — 
knew  what  had  brought  that  look  to  his  face. 
She  went  and,  bending  over  him,  laid  a  hand  on 
his  shoulder.  The  disturbance  of  her  touch 
caused  the  tweed  to  give  out  a  tremendous 
volume  of  scent,  making  her  feel  a  little  dizzy. 

"  Adrian,11  she  faltered,  "  mightn't  we  for  once 
— it  is  Christmas  Day — mightn't  we,  just  to-day, 
sprinkle  some  bread-crumbs  ?" 

He  rose  from  the  table,  and  leaned  against  the 
mantelpiece,  looking  down  at  the  fire.  She 
watched  him  tensely.  At  length,  "  Oh  Jacynth,1 
he  groaned,  "  don't — don't  tempt  me." 

"But  surely,  dear,  surely " 

110 


ENDEAVOUR 

44  Jacynth,  don't  you  remember  that  long  talk 
we  had  last  winter,  after  the  annual  meeting  of 
the  Feathered  Friends1  League,  and  how  we  agreed 
that  those  sporadic  doles  could  do  no  real  good — 
must  even  degrade  the  birds  who  received  them — 
and  that  we  had  no  right  to  meddle  in  what 
ought  to  be  done  by  collective  action  of  the 
State  ? " 

"  Yes,  and — oh  my  dear,  I  do  still  agree,  with 
all  my  heart.  But  if  the  State  will  do  nothing — 
nothing " 

"  It  won't,  it  daren't,  go  on  doing  nothing, 
unless  we  encourage  it  to  do  so.  Don't  you  see, 
Jacynth,  it  is  just  because  so  many  people  take  it 
on  themselves  to  feed  a  few  birds  here  and  there 
that  the  State  feels  it  can  afford  to  shirk  the 
responsibility  ?  " 

"  All  that  is  fearfully  true.  But  just  now — 
Adrian,  the  look  in  that  robin's  eyes — 

Berridge  covered  his  own  eyes,  as  though  to 
blot  out  from  his  mind  the  memory  of  that  look. 
But  Jacynth  was  not  silenced.  She  felt  herself 
dragged  on  by  her  sense  of  duty  to  savour,  and 
to  make  her  husband  savour,  the  full  bitterness 
that  the  situation  could  yield  for  them 
both.  "  Adrian,"  she  said,  "  a  fearful  thought 
111 


came    to    me.     Suppose — suppose    it    had    been 
Amber  ! " 

Even  before  he  shuddered  at  the  thought,  he 
raised  his  finger  to  his  lips,  glancing  round  at  the 
cage.  It  was  clear  that  Amber  had  not  overheard 
Jacynth's  remark,  for  he  threw  back  his  head  and 
uttered  one  of  his  blithest  trills.  Adrian,  thus 
relieved,  was  free  to  shudder  at  the  thought  just 
suggested. 

"  Sometimes,"  murmured  Jacynth,  "  I  wonder  if 
we,  holding  the  views  we  hold,  are  justified  in 
keeping  Amber." 

"Ah,  dear,  we  took  him  in  our  individualistic 
days.  We  cannot  repudiate  him  now.  It  wouldn't 
be  fair.  Besides,  you  see,  he  isn't  here  on  a  basis 
of  mere  charity.  He's  not  a  parasite,  but  an 
artist.  He  gives  us  of  his  art." 

"  Yes,  dear,  I  know.  But  you  remember  our 
doubts  about  the  position  of  artists  in  the  com- 
munity— whether  the  State  ought  to  sanction 
them  at  all." 

"True.  But  we  cannot  visit  those  doubts  on 
our  old  friend  yonder,  can  we,  dear  ?  At  the  same 
time,  I  admit  that  when — when — Jacynth,  if  ever 
anything  happens  to  Amber,  we  shall  perhaps  not 
be  justified  in  keeping  another  bird." 
112 


ENDEAVOUR 

"  Don't,  please  don't  talk  of  such  things.""  She 
moved  to  the  window.  Snow,  a  delicate  white 
powder,  was  falling  on  the  coverlet  of  snow. 

Outside,  on  the  sill,  the  importunate  robin  lay 
supine,  his  little  heart  beating  no  more  behind 
the  shabby  finery  of  his  breast,  but  his  glazing 
eyes  half-open  as  though  even  in  death  he  were 
still  questioning.  Above  him  and  all  around  him 
brooded  the  genius  of  infinity,  dispassionate, 
inscrutable,  grey. 

Jacynth  turned  and  mutely  beckoned  her 
husband  to  the  window. 

They  stood  there,  these  two,  gazing  silently 
down. 

Presently  Jacynth  said  :  "  Adrian,  are  you  sure 
that  we,  you  and  I,  for  all  our  theories,  and  all 
our  efforts,  aren't  futile  ?" 

"  No,  dear.  Sometimes  I  am  not  sure.  But — 
there's  a  certain  comfort  in  not  being  sure.  To 
die  for  what  one  knows  to  be  true,  as  many  saints 
have  done — that  is  well.  But  to  live,  as  many  of 
us  do  nowadays,  in  service  of  what  may,  for  aught 
we  know,  be  only  a  half-truth  or  not  true  at  all — 
this  seems  to  me  nobler  still." 

"  Because  it  takes  more  out  of  us  ?  " 

"  Because  it  takes  more  out  of  us." 

113  i 


A  CHRISTMAS  GARLAND 

Standing  between  the  live  bird  and  the  dead, 
they  gazed  across  the  river,  over  the  snow-covered 
wharves,  over  the  dim,  slender  chimneys  from 
which  no  smoke  came,  into  the  grey-black  veil  of 
the  distance.  And  it  seemed  to  them  that  the 
genius  of  infinity  did  not  know — perhaps  did 
not  even  care — whether  they  were  futile  or  not, 
nor  how  much  and  to  what  purpose,  if  to  any 
purpose,  they  must  go  on  striving. 


114 


CHRISTMAS 

By 

G.  S.  STR**T 


CHRISTMAS 

ONE  likes  it  or  not.  This  said,  there  is 
plaguey  little  else  to  say  of  Christmas,  and 
I  (though  I  doubt  my  sentiments  touch  you  not 
at  all)  would  rather  leave  that  little  unsaid.  Did 
I  confess  a  distaste  for  Christmas,  I  should  incur 
your  enmity.  But  if  I  find  it,  as  I  protest  I  do, 
rather  agreeable  than  otherwise,  why  should  I 
spoil  my  pleasure  by  stringing  vain  words  about 
it  ?  Swift  and  the  broomstick — yes.  But  that 
essay  was  done  at  the  behest  of  a  clever  woman, 
and  to  annoy  the  admirers  of  Robert  Boyle. 
Besides,  it  was  hardly — or  do  you  think  it  was  ? — 
worth  the  trouble  of  doing  it.  There  was  no 
trouble  involved  ?  Possibly.  But  I  am  not  the 
Dean.  And  anyhow  the  fact  that  he  never  did 
anything  of  the  kind  again  may  be  taken  to  imply 
that  he  would  not  be  bothered.  So  would  not  I, 
if  I  had  a  deanery. 

That  is  an  hypothesis  I  am  tempted  to  pursue. 

I   should   like  to    fill   my   allotted   space   before 

reaching  the  tiresome  theme  I  have  set  myself .  .  . 

A  deanery,  the  cawing  of  rooks,  their  effect  on 

117 


A  CHRISTMAS  GARLAND 

the  nervous  system,  Trollope's  delineations  of 
deans,  the  advantages  of  the  Mid-Victorian 
novel  .  .  .  But  your  discursive  essayist  is  a 
nuisance.  Best  come  to  the  point.  The  bore  is 
in  finding  a  point  to  come  to.  Besides,  the 
chances  are  that  any  such  point  will  have  long 
ago  been  worn  blunt  by  a  score  of  more  active- 
seekers.  Alas  ! 

Since  I  wrote  the  foregoing  words,  I  have  been 
out  for  a  long  walk,  in  search  of  inspiration, 
through  the  streets  of  what  is  called  the  West 
End.  Snobbishly  so  called.  Why  draw  these 
crude  distinctions?  We  all  know  that  Mayfair 
happens  to  lie  a  few  miles  further  west  than 
Whitechapel.  It  argues  a  lack  of  breeding  to  go 
on  calling  attention  to  the  fact.  If  the  people 
of  Whitechapel  were  less  beautiful  or  less  well- 
mannered  or  more  ignorant  than  we,  there  might 
be  some  excuse.  But  they  are  not  so.  True, 
themselves  talk  about  the  East  End,  but  this 
only  makes  the  matter  worse.  To  a  sensitive  ear 
their  phrase  has  a  ring  of  ironic  humility  that 
jars  not  less  than  our  own  coarse  boastfulness. 
Heaven  knows  they  have  a  right  to  be  ironic,  and 
who  shall  blame  them  for  exercising  it  ?  All  the 
same,  this  sort  of  thing  worries  me  horribly. 
118 


CHRISTMAS 

I  said  that  I  found  Christmas  rather  agreeable 
than  otherwise.  But  I  was  speaking  as  one 
accustomed  to  live  mostly  in  the  past.  The  walk 
I  have  just  taken,  refreshing  in  itself,  has  painfully 
reminded  me  that  I  cannot  hit  it  off  with  the 
present.  My  life  is  in  the  later  days  of  the 
eighteenth  and  the  earlier  days  of  the  nineteenth 
century.  This  twentieth  affair  is  as  a  vision, 
dimly  foreseen  at  odd  moments,  and  put  from  me 
with  a  slight  shudder.  My  actual  Christmases 
are  spent  (say)  in  Holland  House,  which  has  but 
recently  been  built.  Little  Charles  Fox  is  allowed 
by  his  father  to  join  us  for  the  earlier  stages  of 
dessert.  I  am  conscious  of  patting  him  on  the 
head  and  predicting  for  him  a  distinguished 
future.  A  very  bright  little  fellow,  with  his 
father's  eyes  !  Or  again,  I  am  down  at  Newstead. 
Byron  is  in  his  wildest  spirits,  a  shade  too 
uproarious.  I  am  glad  to  escape  into  the  park 
and  stroll  a  quiet  hour  on  the  arm  of  Mr.  Hughes 
Ball.  Years  pass.  The  approach  of  Christmas 
finds  one  loth  to  leave  one's  usual  haunts.  One  is 
on  one's  way  to  one's  club  to  dine  with  Postumus 
and  dear  old  "  Wigsby  "  Pendennis,  quietly  at 
one's  consecrated  table  near  the  fireplace.  As  one 
is  crossing  St.  James's  Street  an  ear-piercing  grunt 
119 


A  CHRISTMAS  GARLAND 

causes  one  to  reel  back  just  in  time  to  be  not  run 
over  by  a  motor-car.  Inside  is  a  woman  who 
scowls  down  at  one  through  the  window — "  Serve 
you  right  if  we\l  gone  over  you."  Yes,  I  often 
have  these  awakenings  to  fact — or  rather  these 
provisions  of  what  life  might  be  if  I  survived  into 
the  twentieth  century.  Alas ! 

I  have  mentioned  that  woman  in  the  motor-car 
because  she  is  germane  to  my  theme.  She 
typifies  the  vices  of  the  modern  Christmas.  For 
her,  by  the  absurd  accident  of  her  wealth,  there  is 
no  distinction  between  people  who  have  not 
motor-cars  and  people  who  might  as  well  be  run 
over.  But  I  wrong  her.  If  we  others  were  all 
run  over,  there  would  be  no  one  before  whom  she 
could  flaunt  her  loathsome  air  of  superiority. 
And  what  would  she  do  then,  poor  thing?  I 
doubt  she  would  die  of  boredom — painfully,  one 
hopes.  In  the  same  way,  if  the  shop-keepers  in 
Bond  Street  knew  there  was  no  one  who  could 
not  afford  to  buy  the  things  in  their  windows, 
there  would  be  an  end  to  the  display  that  makes 
those  windows  intolerable  (to  you  and  me)  during 
the  month  of  December.  I  had  often  suspected 
that  the  things  there  were  not  meant  to  be 
bought  by  people  who  could  buy  them,  but 
120 


CHRISTMAS 

merely  to  irritate  the  rest.  This  afternoon  I  was 
sure  of  it.  Not  in  one  window  anything  a 
sane  person  would  give  to  any  one  not  an  idiot, 
but  everywhere  a  general  glossy  grin  out  at  people 
who  are  not  plutocrats.  This  sort  of  thing  lashes 
me  to  ungovernable  fury.  The  lion  is  roused,  and 
I  recognise  in  myself  a  born  leader  of  men.  Be 
so  good  as  to  smash  those  windows  for  me. 

One  does  not  like  to  think  that  Christmas  has 
been  snapped  up,  docked  of  its  old-world  kindli- 
ness, and  pressed  into  the  service  of  an  odious 
ostentation.  But  so  it  has.  Alas  !  The  thought 
of  Father  Christmas  trudging  through  the  snow  to 
the  homes  of  gentle  and  simple  alike  (forgive  that 
stupid,  snobbish  phrase)  was  agreeable.  But 
Father  Christmas  in  red  plush  breeches,  lounging 
on  the  doorstep  of  Sir  Gorgius  Midas — one  averts 
one's  eyes. 

I  have — now  I  come  to  think  of  it — another 
objection  to  the  modern  Christmas.  It  would 
be  affectation  to  pretend  not  to  know  that  there 
are  many  Jews  living  in  England,  and  in  London 
especially.  I  have  always  had  a  deep  respect  for 
that  race,  their  distinction  in  intellect  and  in 
character.  Being  not  one  of  them,  I  may  in  their 
behalf  put  a  point  which  themselves  would  be  the 
121 


last  to  suggest.  I  hope  they  will  acquit  me  of 
impertinence  in  doing  this.  You,  in  your  turn, 
must  acquit  me  of  sentimentalism.  The  Jews  are 
a  minority,  and  as  such  must  take  their  chances. 
But  may  not  a  majority  refrain  from  pressing  its 
rights  to  the  utmost  ?  It  is  well  that  we  should 
celebrate  Christmas  heartily,  and  all  that.  But 
we  could  do  so  without  an  emphasis  that  seems  to 
me,  in  the  circumstances,  'tether  side  good  taste. 
"  Good  taste ""  is  a  hateful  phrase.  But  it  escaped 
me  in  the  heat  of  the  moment.  Alas  ! 


122 


THE  FEAST 

By 

J*S*PH  C#NR*D 


THE    FEAST 

THE  hut  in  which  slept  the  white  man  was 
on  a  dealing  between  the  forest  and  the 
river.  Silence,  the  silence  murmurous  and  unquiet 
of  a  tropical  night,  brooded  over  the  hut  that, 
baked  through  by  the  sun,  sweated  a  vapour  beneath 
the  cynical  light  of  the  stars.  Mahamo  lay  rigid 
and  watchful  at  the  hut's  mouth.  In  his  upturned 
eyes,  and  along  the  polished  surface  of  his  lean 
body  black  and  immobile,  the  stars  were  reflected, 
creating  an  illusion  of  themselves  who  are 
illusions. 

The  roofs  of  the  congested  trees,  writhing  in 
some  kind  of  agony  private  and  eternal,  made 
tenebrous  and  shifty  silhouettes  against  the  sky, 
like  shapes  cut  out  of  black  paper  by  a  maniac 
who  pushes  them  with  his  thumb  this  way  and 
that,  irritably,  on  a  concave  surface  of  blue  steel. 
Resin  oozed  unseen  from  the  upper  branches  to 
the  trunks  swathed  in  creepers  that  clutched  and 
interlocked  with  tendrils  venomous,  frantic  and 
faint.  Down  below,  by  force  of  habit,  the  lush 
herbage  went  through  the  farce  of  growth — that 
125 


A  CHRISTMAS  GARLAND 

farce  old  and  screaming,  whose  trite  end  is 
decomposition. 

Within  the  hut  the  form  of  the  white  man, 
corpulent  and  pale,  was  covered  with  a  mosquito- 
net  that  was  itself  illusory  like  everything  else, 
only  more  so.  Flying  squadrons  of  mosquitoes 
inside  its  meshes  flickered  and  darted  over  him, 
working  hard,  but  keeping  silence  so  as  not  to 
excite  him  from  sleep.  Cohorts  of  yellow  ants 
disputed  him  against  cohorts  of  purple  ants,  the 
two  kinds  slaying  one  another  in  thousands.  The 
battle  was  undecided  when  suddenly,  with  no  such 
warning  as  it  gives  in  some  parts  of  the  world,  the 
sun  blazed  up  over  the  horizon,  turning  night  into 
day,  and  the  insects  vanished  back  into  their  camps. 

The  white  man  ground  his  knuckles  into  the 
corners  of  his  eyes,  emitting  that  snore  final  and 
querulous  of  a  middle-aged  man  awakened  rudely. 
With  a  gesture  brusque  but  flaccid  he  plucked 
aside  the  net  and  peered  around.  The  bales  of 
cotton  cloth,  the  beads,  the  brass  wire,  the  bottle* 
of  rum,  had  not  been  spirited  away  in  the  night. 
So  far  so  good.  The  faithful  servant  of  his 
employers  was  now  at  liberty  to  care  for  his  own 
interests.  He  regarded  himself,  passing  his  hands 
over  his  skin. 


THE  FEAST 

"  Hi !  Mahamo ! "  he  shouted.  "  I've  been 
eaten  up." 

The  islander,  with  one  sinuous  motion,  sprang 
from  the  ground,  through  the  mouth  of  the  hut. 
Then,  after  a  glance,  he  threw  high  his  hands 
in  thanks  to  such  good  and  evil  spirits  as  had 
charge  of  his  concerns.  In  a  tone  half  of 
reproach,  half  of  apology,  he  murmured — 

"You  white  men  sometimes  sav  strange  things 
that  deceive  the  heart." 

"  Reach  me  that  ammonia  bottle,  d'you  hear ; " 
answered  the  white  man.  "This  is  a  pretty 
place  you've  brought  me  to  ! "  He  took  a 
draught.  "  Christmas  Day,  too  !  Of  all  the — 
But  I  suppose  it  seems  all  right  to  you,  you 
funny  blackamoor,  to  be  here  on  Christmas 
Day  ? " 

"  We  are  here  on  the  day  appointed,  Mr. 
Williams.  It  is  a  feast-day  of  your  people  ?  " 

Mr.  Williams  had  lain  back,  with  closed  eyes, 
on  his  mat.  Nostalgia  was  doing  duty  to  him 
for  imagination.  He  was  wafted  to  a  bedroom  in 
Marylebone,  where  in  honour  of  the  Day  he  lay 
late  dozing,  with  great  contentment ;  outside,  a 
slush  of  snow  in  the  street,  the  sound  of  church - 
bells ;  from  below  a  savour  of  especial  cookery. 
127 


A  CHRISTMAS  GARLAND 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "it's  a  feast-day  of  my 
people." 

"  Of  mine  also,"  said  the  islander  humbly. 

"  Is  it  though  ?  But  they'll  do  business 
first  ?  " 

"  They  must  first  do  that." 

"  And  they'll  bring  their  ivory  with  them  ?  " 

"  Every  man  will  bring  ivory,"  answered  the 
islander,  with  a  smile  gleaming  and  wide. 

"  How  soonll  they  be  here  ?  " 

"  Has  not  the  sun  risen  ?  They  are  on  their 
way." 

"  Well,  I  hope  they'll  hurry.  The  sooner  we're 
off  this  cursed  island  of  yours  the  better.  Take 
all  those  things  out,"  Mr.  Williams  added,  point- 
ing to  the  merchandise,  "  and  arrange  them — 
neatly,  mind  you  ! " 

In  certain  circumstances  it  is  right  that  a  man 
be  humoured  in  trifles.  Mahamo,  having  borne  out 
the  merchandise,  arranged  it  very  neatly. 

While  Mr.  Williams  made  his  toilet,  the  sun 
and  the  forest,  careless  of  the  doings  of  white  and 
black  men  alike,  waged  their  warfare  implacable 
and  daily.  The  forest  from  its  inmost  depths  sent 
forth  perpetually  its  legions  of  shadows  that  fell 
dead  in  the  instant  of  exposure  to  the  enemy 
128 


THE  FEAST 

whose  rays  heroic  and  absurd  its  outposts  anni- 
hilated. There  came  from  those  inilluminable 
depths  the  equable  rumour  of  myriads  of  winged 
things  and  crawling  things  newly  roused  to  the 
task  of  killing  and  being  killed.  Thence  detached 
itself,  little  by  little,  an  insidious  sound  of  a 
drum  beaten.  This  sound  drew  more  near. 

Mr.  Williams,  issuing  from  the  hut,  heard  it,  and 
stood  gaping  towards  it. 

"  Is  that  them  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  That  is  they,"  the  islander  murmured,  moving 
away  towards  the  edge  of  the  forest. 

Sounds  of  chanting  were  a  now  audible  ac- 
companiment to  the  drum. 

"  What's  that  they're  singing  ? "  asked  Mr. 
Williams. 

"  They  sing  of  their  business,"'  said  Mahamo. 

"Oh  !"  Mr.  Williams  was  slightly  shocked.  "  I'd 
have  thought  they'd  be  singing  of  their  feast." 

"  It  is  of  their  feast  they  sing." 

It  has  been  stated  that  Mr.  Williams  was  not 
imaginative.  But  a  few  years  of  life  in  climates 
alien  and  intemperate  had  disordered  his  nerves. 
There  was  that  in  the  rhythms  of  the  hymn  which 
made  bristle  his  flesh. 

Suddenly,  when  they  were  very  near,  the  voices 
129  K 


A  CHRISTMAS  GARLAND 

ceased,  leaving  a  legacy  of  silence  more  sinister 
than  themselves.  And  now  the  black  spaces 
between  the  trees  were  relieved  by  bits  of  white 
that  were  the  eyeballs  and  teeth  of  Mahamo's 
brethren. 

"  It  was  of  their  feast,  it  was  of  you,  they  sang," 
said  Mahamo. 

"  Look  here,"  cried  Mr.  Williams  in  his  voice  of 
a  man  not  to  be  trifled  with.  "  Look  here,  if 
you've " 

He  was  silenced  by  sight  of  what  seemed  to  be 
a  young  sapling  sprung  up  from  the  ground  with- 
in a  yard  of  him — a  young  sapling  tremulous,  with 
a  root  of  steel.  Then  a  thread-like  shadow 
skimmed  the  air,  and  another  spear  came  imping- 
ing the  ground  within  an  inch  of  his  feet. 

As  he  turned  in  his  flight  he  saw  the  goods  so 
neatly  arranged  at  his  orders,  and  there  flashed 
through  him,  even  in  the  thick  of  the  spears,  the 
thought  that  he  would  be  a  grave  loss  to  his 
employers.  This — for  Mr.  Williams  was,  not  less 
than  the  goods,  of  a  kind  easily  replaced — was  an 
illusion.  It  was  the  last  of  Mr.  Williams 
illusions. 


130 


A  RECOLLECTION 

By 

EDM*ND  G*SSE 


A    RECOLLECTION 

"And  let  us  strew 
Twain  wreaths  of  holly  and  of  yew." 

WALLER. 

ONE  out  of  many  Christmas  Days  abides  with 
peculiar  vividness  in  my  memory.  In  setting 
down,  however  clumsily,  some  slight  record  of  it, 
I  feel  that  I  shall  be  discharging  a  duty  not  only 
to  the  two  disparately  illustrious  men  who  made 
it  so  very  memorable,  but  also  to  all  young 
students  of  English  and  Scandinavian  literature. 
My  use  of  the  first  person  singular,  delightful 
though  that  pronoun  is  in  the  works  of  the  truly 
gifted,  jars  unspeakably  on  me ;  but  reasons  of 
space  baulk  my  sober  desire  to  call  myself  merely 
the  present  writer,  or  the  infatuated  go-between, 
or  the  cowed  and  imponderable  young  person  who 
was  in  attendance. 

In  the  third  week  of  December,  1878,  taking 

7  *  O 

the  opportunity  of  a  brief  and  undeserved  vaca- 
tion, I  went  to  Venice.  On  the  morning  after  my 
arrival,  in  answer  to  a  most  kind  and  cordial 
summons,  I  presented  myself  at  the  Palazzo 
133 


A  CHRISTMAS  GARLAND 

Rezzonico.  Intense  as  was  the  impression  he 
always  made  even  in  London,  I  think  that  those 
of  us  who  met  Robert  Browning  only  in  the 
stress  and  roar  of  that  metropolis  can  hardly  have 
gauged  the  fullness  of  his  potentialities  for 
impressing.  Venice,  "  so  weak,  so  quiet,"  as  Mr. 
Ruskin  had  called  her,  was  indeed  the  ideal  setting 
for  one  to  whom  neither  of  those  epithets  could 
by  any  possibility  have  been  deemed  applicable. 
The  steamboats  that  now  wake  the  echoes  of  the 
canals  had  not  yet  been  imported ;  but  the 
vitality  of  the  imported  poet  was  in  some  measure 
a  preparation  for  them.  It  did  not,  however,  find 
me  quite  prepared  for  itself,  and  I  am  afraid  that 
some  minutes  must  have  elapsed  before  I  could,  as 
it  were,  find  my  feet  in  the  torrent  of  his  geniality 
and  high  spirits,  and  give  him  news  of  his  friends 
in  London. 

He  was  at  that  time  engaged  in  revising  the 
proof-sheets  of  "  Dramatic  Idylls,"  and  after 
luncheon,  to  which  he  very  kindly  bade  me  remain, 
he  read  aloud  certain  selected  passages.  The 
yellow  ha/e  of  a  wintry  Venetian  sunshine  poured 
in  through  the  vast  windows  of  his  salone,  making 
an  aureole  around  his  silvered  head.  I  would 
give  much  to  live  that  hour  over  again.  But  it 
134 


A  RECOLLECTION 

was  vouchsafed  in  days  before  the  Browning 
Society  came  and  made  everything  so  simple  for 
us  all.  I  am  afraid  that  after  a  few  minutes  I  sat 
enraptured  by  the  sound  rather  than  by  the  sense 
of  the  lines.  I  find,  in  the  notes  I  made  of  the 
occasion,  that  I  figured  myself  as  plunging  through 
some  enchanted  thicket  on  the  back  of  an  inspired 
bull. 

That  evening,  as  I  was  strolling  in  Piazza  San 
Marco,  my  thoughts  of  Browning  were  all  of  a 
sudden  scattered  by  the  vision  of  a  small,  thick-set 
man  seated  at  one  of  the  tables  in  the  Cafe 
Florian.  This  was — and  my  heart  leapt  like  a 
young  trout  when  I  saw  that  it  could  be  none 
other  than — Henrik  Ibsen.  Whether  joy  or  fear 
was  the  predominant  emotion  in  me,  I  should  be 
hard  put  to  it  to  say.  It  had  been  my  privilege  to 
correspond  extensively  with  the  great  Scandinavian, 
and  to  be  frequently  received  by  him,  some  years 
earlier  than  the  date  of  which  I  write,  in  Rome. 
In  that  city  haunted  by  the  shades  of  so  many 
Emperors  and  Popes  I  had  felt  comparatively  at 
ease  even  in  Ibsen's  presence.  But  seated  here  in 
the  homelier  decay  of  Venice,  closely  buttoned  in 
his  black  surcoat  and  crowned  with  his  uncom- 
promising top-hat,  with  the  lights  of  the  Piazza 
135 


flashing  back  wanly  from  his  gold-rimmed 
spectacles,  and  his  lips  tight-shut  like  some  steel 
trap  into  which  our  poor  humanity  had  just  fallen, 
he  seemed  to  constitute  a  menace  under  which  the 
boldest  might  well  quail.  Nevertheless,  I  took  my 
courage  in  both  hands,  and  laid  it  as  a  kind  of 
votive  offering  on  the  little  table  before  him. 

My  reward  was  in  the  surprising  amiability  that 
he  then  and  afterwards  displayed.  My  travelling 
had  indeed  been  doubly  blessed,  for,  whilst  my 
subsequent  afternoons  were  spent  in  Browning's 
presence,  my  evenings  fell  with  regularity  into 
the  charge  of  Ibsen.  One  of  these  evenings  is  for  me 
"  prouder,  more  laurel'd  than  the  rest  "  as  having 
been  the  occasion  when  he  read  to  me  the  MS.  of 
a  play  which  he  had  just  completed.  He  was 
staying  at  the  Hotel  Danieli,  an  edifice  famous 
for  having  been,  rather  more  than  forty  years 
previously,  the  socket  in  which  the  flame  of  an 
historic  grande  passion  had  finally  sunk  and 
guttered  out  with  no  inconsiderable  accompani- 
ment of  smoke  and  odour.  It  was  there,  in  an 
upper  room,  that  I  now  made  acquaintance  with 
a  couple  very  different  from  George  Sand  and 
Alfred  de  Musset,  though  destined  to  become 
hardly  less  famous  than  they.  I  refer  to  Torvald 
136 


A  RECOLLECTION 

and  Nora  Helmer.  My  host  read  to  me  with  the 
utmost  vivacity,  standing  in  the  middle  of  the 
apartment ;  and  I  remember  that  in  the  scene 
where  Nora  Helmer  dances  the  tarantella  her 
creator  instinctively  executed  a  few  illustrative 
steps. 

During  those  days  I  felt  very  much  as  might  a 
minnow  swimming  to  and  fro  between  Leviathan 
on  the  one  hand  and  Behemoth  on  the  other — a 
minnow  tremulously  pleased,  but  ever  wistful  for 
some  means  of  bringing  his  two  enormous 
acquaintances  together.  On  the  afternoon  of 
December  24th  I  confided  to  Browning  my 
aspiration.  He  had  never  heard  of  this  brother 
poet  and  dramatist,  whose  fame  indeed  was  at 
that  time  still  mainly  Boreal ;  but  he  cried  out 
with  the  greatest  heartiness,  "  Capital !  Bring  him 
round  with  you  at  one  o'clock  to-morrow  for 
turkey  and  plum-pudding  !  " 

I  betook  myself  straight  to  the  Hotel  Danieli, 
hoping  against  hope  that  Ibsen's  sole  answer 
would  not  be  a  comminatory  grunt  and  an  instant 
rupture  of  all  future  relations  with  myself.  At 
first  he  was  indeed  resolute  not  to  go.  He  had  never 
heard  of  this  Herr  Browning.  (It  was  one  of  the 
strengths  of  his  strange,  crustacean  genius  that 
137 


he  never  had  heard  of  anybody.)  I  took  it  on 
myself  to  say  that  Herr  Browning  would  send  his 
private  gondola,  propelled  by  his  two  gondoliers, 
to  conduct  Herr  Ibsen  to  the  scene  of  the  festivity. 
I  think  it  was  this  prospect  that  made  him 
gradually  unbend,  for  he  had  already  acquired 
that  taste  for  pomp  and  circumstance  which  was 
so  notable  a  characteristic  of  his  later  years.  I 
hastened  back  to  the  Palazzo  Rezzonico  before  he 
could  change  his  mind.  I  need  hardly  say  that 
Browning  instantly  consented  to  send  the  gondola. 
So  large  and  lovable  was  his  nature  that,  had  he 
owned  a  thousand  of  those  conveyances,  he  would 
not  have  hesitated  to  send  out  the  whole  fleet  in 
honour  of  any  friend  of  any  friend  of  his. 

Next  day,  as  I  followed  Ibsen  down  the 
Danielian  water-steps  into  the  expectant  gondola, 
my  emotion  was  such  that  I  was  tempted  to 
snatch  from  him  his  neatly-furled  umbrella  and 
spread  it  out  over  his  head,  like  the  umbrella 
beneath  which  the  Doges  of  days  gone  by  had 
made  their  appearances  in  public.  It  was  perhaps 
a  pity  that  I  repressed  this  impulse.  Ibsen  seemed 
to  be  already  regretting  that  he  had  unbent.  I 
could  not  help  thinking,  as  we  floated  along  the 
Riva  Schiavoni,  that  he  looked  like  some  par- 
138 


A  RECOLLECTION 

ticularly  ruthless  member  of  the  Council  of  Ten. 
I  did,  however,  try  faintly  to  attune  him  in  some 
sort  to  the  spirit  of  our  host  and  of  the  day  of 
the  year.  I  adumbrated  Browning's  outlook  on 
life,  translating  into  Norwegian,  I  well  remember, 
the  words  "  God's  in  His  heaven,  all's  right  with 
the  world.""  In  fact  I  cannot  charge  myself  with 
not  having  done  what  I  could.  I  can  only  lament 
that  it  was  not  enough. 

When  we  marched  into  the  salone,  Browning 
was  seated  at  the  piano,  playing  (I  think)  a 
Toccata  of  Galuppi's.  On  seeing  us,  he  brought 
his  hands  down  with  a  great  crash  on  the  key- 
board, seemed  to  reach  us  in  one  astonishing  bound 
across  the  marble  floor,  and  clapped  Ibsen  loudly 
on  either  shoulder,  wishing  him  "  the  Merriest  of 
Merry  Christmases." 

Ibsen,  under  this  sudden  impact,  stood  firm  as 
a  rock,  and  it  flitted  through  my  brain  that  here 
at  last  was  solved  the  old  problem  of  what  would 
happen  if  an  irresistible  force  met  an  immoveable 
mass.  But  it  was  obvious  that  the  rock  was  not 
rejoicing  in  the  moment  of  victory.  I  was  tartly 
asked  whether  I  had  not  explained  to  Herr 
Browning  that  his  guest  did  not  understand 
English.  I  hastily  rectified  my  omission,  and 
139 


thenceforth  our  host  spoke  in  Italian.  Ibsen, 
though  he  understood  that  language  fairly  well, 
was  averse  to  speaking  it.  Such  remarks  as  he 
made  in  the  course  of  the  meal  to  which  we  pre- 
sently sat  down  were  made  in  Norwegian  and 
translated  by  myself. 

Browning,  while  he  was  carving  the  turkey, 
asked  Ibsen  whether  he  had  visited  any  of  the 
Venetian  theatres.  Ibsen's  reply  was  that  he 
never  visited  theatres.  Browning  laughed  his 
great  laugh,  and  cried  "  That's  right  !  We  poets 
who  write  plays  must  give  the  theatres  as  wide  a 
berth  as  possible.  We  aren't  wanted  there  ! " 
"  How  so  ? "  asked  Ibsen.  Browning  looked  a 
little  puzzled,  and  I  had  to  explain  that  in 
northern  Europe  Herr  Ibsen's  plays  were  fre- 
quently performed.  At  this  I  seemed  to  see  on 
Browning's  face  a  slight  shadow — so  swift  and 
transient  a  shadow  as  might  be  cast  by  a  swallow 
flying  across  a  sunlit  garden.  An  instant,  and  it 
was  gone.  I  was  glad,  however,  to  be  able  to 
soften  my  statement  by  adding  that  Herr  Ibsen 
had  in  his  recent  plays  abandoned  the  use  of 
verse. 

The  trouble  was  that  in  Browning's  company 
he  seemed  practically  to  have  abandoned  the  use 
140 


A  RECOLLECTION 

of  prose  too.  When,  moreover,  he  did  speak,  it 
was  always  in  a  sense  contrary  to  that  of  our  host. 
The  Risorgimento  was  a  theme  always  very  near 
to  the  great  heart  of  Browning,  and  on  this 
occasion  he  hymned  it  with  more  than  his  usual 
animation  and  resource  (if  indeed  that  were  pos- 
sible). He  descanted  especially  on  the  vast 
increase  that  had  accrued  to  the  sum  of  human 
happiness  in  Italy  since  the  success  of  that  re- 
markable movement.  When  Ibsen  rapped  out 
the  conviction  that  what  Italy  needed  was  to  be 
invaded  and  conquered  once  and  for  all  by 
Austria,  I  feared  that  an  explosion  was  inevitable. 
But  hardly  had  my  translation  of  the  inauspicious 
sentiment  been  uttered  when  the  plum-pudding 
was  borne  into  the  room,  flaming  on  its  dish.  I 
clapped  my  hands  wildly  at  sight  of  it,  in  the 
English  fashion,  and  was  intensely  relieved  when 
the  yet  more  resonant  applause  of  Robert 
Browning  followed  mine.  Disaster  had  been 
averted  by  a  crowning  mercy.  But  I  am  afraid 
that  Ibsen  thought  us  both  quite  mad. 

The    next  topic   that   was    started,    harmless 

though  it  seemed  at  first,  was  fraught  with  yet 

graver  peril.     The  world   of  scholarship  was   at 

that   time   agitated   by  the   recent   discovery  of 

141 


A  CHRISTMAS  GARLAND 

what  might  or  might  not  prove  to  be  a  fragment 
of  Sappho.  Browning  proclaimed  his  unshake- 
able  belief  in  the  authenticity  of  these  verses. 
To  my  surprise,  Ibsen,  whom  I  had  been  unpre- 
pared to  regard  as  a  classical  scholar,  said 
positively  that  they  had  not  been  written  by 
Sappho.  Browning  challenged  him  to  give  a 
reason.  A  literal  translation  of  the  reply  would 
have  been  "  Because  no  woman  ever  was  capable 
of  writing  a  fragment  of  good  poetry.""  Imagin- 
ation reels  at  the  effect  this  would  have  had  on 
the  recipient  of  "  Sonnets  from  the  Portuguese." 
The  agonised  interpreter,  throwing  honour  to  the 
winds,  babbled  some  wholly  fallacious  version  of 
the  words.  Again  the  situation  had  been  saved ; 
but  it  was  of  the  kind  that  does  not  even  in 
furthest  retrospect  lose  its  power  to  freeze  the 
heart  and  constrict  the  diaphragm. 

I  was  fain  to  thank  heaven  when,  immediately 
after  the  termination  of  the  meal,  Ibsen  rose, 
bowed  to  his  host,  and  bade  me  express  his 
thanks  for  the  entertainment.  Out  on  the 
Grand  Canal,  in  the  gondola  which  had  again 
been  placed  at  our  disposal,  his  passion  for 
"  documents  "  that  might  bear  on  his  work  was 
quickly  manifested.  He  asked  me  whether  Herr 
142 


A  RECOLLECTION 

Browning  had  ever  married.  Receiving  an 
emphatically  affirmative  reply,  he  inquired  whether 
Fru  Browning  had  been  happy.  Loth  though  I 
was  to  cast  a  blight  on  his  interest  in  the  matter, 
I  conveyed  to  him  with  all  possible  directness  the 
impression  that  Elizabeth  Barrett  had  assuredly 
been  one  of  those  wives  who  do  not  dance 
tarantellas  nor  slam  front-doors.  He  did  not,  to 
the  best  of  my  recollection,  make  further  mention 
of  Browning,  either  then  or  afterwards.  Brown- 
ing himself,  however,  thanked  me  warmly,  next 
day,  for  having  introduced  my  friend  to  him. 
"  A  capital  fellow  !  "  he  exclaimed,  and  then,  for 
a  moment,  seemed  as  though  he  were  about  to 
qualify  this  estimate,  but  ended  by  merely  repeat- 
ing "  A  capital  fellow ! " 

Ibsen  remained  in  Venice  some  weeks  after  my 
return  to  London.  He  was,  it  may  be  con- 
jectured, bent  on  a  specially  close  study  of  the 
Bride  of  the  Adriatic  because  her  marriage  had 
been  not  altogether  a  happy  one.  But  there 
appears  to  be  no  evidence  whatsoever  that  he  went 
again,  either  of  his  own  accord  or  by  invitation, 
to  the  Palazzo  Rezzonico. 


143 


OF    CHRISTMAS 

By 

H*L**RE  B*LL*C 


OF    CHRISTMAS 

THERE  was  a  man  came  to  an  Inn  by  night, 
and  afterhehad  called  three  times  they  should 
open  him  the  door — though  why  three  times, 
and  not  three  times  three,  nor  thirty  times  thirty, 
which  is  the  number  of  the  little  stone  devils  that 
make  mows  at  St.  Aloesius  of  Ledera  over  against 
the  marshes  Gue-la-Nuce  to  this  day,  nor  three 
hundred  times  three  hundred  (which  is  a  bestial 
number),  nor  three  thousand  times  three-and- 
thirty,  upon  my  soul  I  know  not,  and  nor  do  you 
— when,  then,  this  jolly  fellow  had  three  times 
cried  out,  shouted,  yelled,  holloa'd,  loudly- 
besought,  caterwauled,  brayed,  sung  out,  and 
roared,  he  did  by  the  same  token  set  himself 
to  beat,  hammer,  bang,  pummel,  and  knock  at 
the  door.  Now  the  door  was  Oak.  It  had  been 
grown  in  the  forest  of  Boulevoise,  hewn  in 
Barre-le-Neuf,  seasoned  in  South  Hoxton,  hinged 
nowhere  in  particular,  and  panelled — and  that 
most  abominably  well — in  Arque,  where  the 
peasants  sell  their  souls  for  skill  in  such  handi- 
craft. But  our  man  knew  nothing  of  all  this, 
147  L  2 


A  CHRISTMAS  GARLAND 

which,  had  he  known  it,  would  have  mattered 
little  enough  to  him,  for  a  reason  which  I  propose 
to  tell  in  the  next  sentence.  The  door  was 
opened.  As  to  the  reasons  why  it  was  not 
opened  sooner,  these  are  most  tediously  set  forth 
in  Professor  Sir  T.  K.  Slibby's  "  Half-Hours  With 
Historic  Doors,"  as  also  in  a  fragment  at  one 
time  attributed  to  Oleaginus  Silo  but  now  proven 
a  forgery  by  Miss  Evans.  Enough  for  our 
purpose,  merry  reader  of  mine,  that  the  door  was 
opened. 

The  man,  as  men  will,  went  in.  And  there,  for 
God's  sake  and  by  the  grace  of  Mary  Mother,  let 
us  leave  him ;  for  the  truth  of  it  is  that  his 
strength  was  all  in  his  lungs,  and  himself  a  poor, 
weak,  clout-faced,  wizen-bellied,  pin-shanked  bloke 
anyway,  who  at  Trinity  Hall  had  spent  the  most 
of  his  time  in  reading  Hume  (that  was  Satan's 
lackey)  and  after  taking  his  degree  did  a  little  in 
the  way  of  Imperial  Finance.  Of  him  it  was  that 
Lord  Abraham  Hart,  that  far-seeing  statesman, 
said,  "  This  young  man  has  the  root  of  the  matter 
in  him.""  I  quote  the  epigram  rather  for  its 
perfect  form  than  for  its  truth.  For  once,  Lord 
Abraham  was  deceived.  But  it  must  be  re- 
membered that  he  was  at  this  time  being  plagued 
U8 


OF  CHRISTMAS 

almost  out  of  his  wits  by  the  vile  (though 
cleverly  engineered)  agitation  for  the  compulsory 
winding-up  of  the  Rondoosdop  Development 
Company.  Afterwards,  in  Wormwood  Scrubbs, 
his  Lordship  admitted  that  his  estimate  of 
his  young  friend  had  perhaps  been  pitched 
too  high.  In  Dartmoor  he  has  since  revoked 
it  altogether,  with  that  manliness  for  which 
the  Empire  so  loved  him  when  he  was  at 
large. 

Now  the  young  man's  name  was  Dimby — 
"  Trot "  Dimby — and  his  mother  had  been  a 
Clupton,  so  that — but  had  I  not  already  dismissed 
him  ?  Indeed  I  only  mentioned  him  because  it 
seemed  that  his  going  to  that  Inn  might  put  me 
on  track  of  that  One  Great  Ultimate  and  Final 
True  Thing  I  am  purposed  to  say  about  Christmas. 
Don't  ask  me  yet  what  that  Thing  is.  Truth 
dwells  in  no  man,  but  is  a  shy  beast  you  must 
hunt  as  you  may  in  the  forests  that  are  round 
about  the  Walls  of  Heaven.  And  I  do  hereby 
curse,  gibbet,  and  denounce  in  execrationem 
perpetuam  atque  aeternam  the  man  who  hunts  in 
a  crafty  or  calculating  way — as,  lying  low,  nosing 
for  scents,  squinting  for  trails,  crawling  noise- 
lessly till  he  shall  come  near  to  his  quarry  and 
149 


A  CHRISTMAS  GARLAND 

then  taking  careful  aim.  Here's  to  him  who 
hunts  Truth  in  the  honest  fashion  of  men,  which 
is,  going  blindly  at  it,  following  his  first  scent  (if 
such  there  be)  or  (if  none)  none,  scrambling  over 
boulders,  fording  torrents,  winding  his  horn, 
plunging  into  thickets,  skipping,  firing  off'  his  gun 
in  the  air  continually,  and  then  ramming  in  some 
more  ammunition  anyhow,  with  a  laugh  and  a 
curse  if  the  charge  explode  in  his  own  jolly  face. 
The  chances  are  he  will  bring  home  in  his  bag 
nothing  but  a  field-mouse  he  trod  on  by  accident. 
Not  the  less  his  is  the  true  sport  and  the  essential 
stuff  of  holiness. 

As  touching  Christmas — but  there  is  nothing 
like  verse  to  clear  the  mind,  heat  the  blood, 
and  make  very  humble  the  heart.  Rouse  thee, 
Muse  ! 

One  Christmas  Night  in  Pontgibaud 

(Pom-pom.,  rub-a-dub-dub} 
A  man  with  a  drum  went  to  and  fro 

(Two  merry  eyes,  two  cheeks  chub) 
Nor  not  a  citril  within,  without, 
But  heard  the  racket  and  heard  the  rout 
And  marvelled  what  it  was  all  about 

(And  who  shall  shrive  Beelzebub  ?) 
150 


OF  CHRISTMAS 

He  whacked  so  hard  the  drum  was  split 

(Pom-pom,  rub-a-dub-dum) 
Out  lept  Saint  Gabriel  from  it 

(Praeclarissimus  Omnium) 
AVho  spread  his  wings  and  up  he  went 
Nor  ever  paused  in  his  ascent 
Till  he  had  reached  the  firmament 

(Benedicamus  Domlnum). 

That's  what  I  shall  sing  (please  God)  at  dawn 
to-morrow,  standing  on  the  high,  green  barrow  at 
Storrington,  where  the  bones  of  Athelstan's  men 
are.  Yea, 

At  dawn  to-morrow 

On  Storrington  Barrow 
111  beg  or  borrow 

A  bow  and  arrow 
And  shoot  sleek  sorrow 

Through  the  marrow. 
The  floods  are  out  and  the  ford  is  narrow, 
The  stars  hang  dead  and  my  limbs  are  lead, 

But  ale  is  gold 

And  there's  good  foot-hold 
On  the  Cuckfield  side  of  Storrington  Barrow. 

This  too  I  shall  sing,  and  other  songs  that  are 
151 


A  CHRISTMAS  GARLAND 

yet  to  write.  In  Pagham  I  shall  sing  them  again, 
and  again  in  Little  Dewstead.  In  Hornside  I 
shall  rewrite  them,  and  at  the  Scythe  and  Turtle 
in  Liphook  (if  I  have  patience)  annotate  them. 
At  Selsey  they  will  be  very  damnably  in  the  way, 
and  I  don^t  at  all  know  what  I  shall  do  with 
them  at  Selsey. 

Such  then,  as  I  see  it,  is  the  whole  pith, 
mystery,  outer  form,  common  acceptation,  pur- 
pose, usage  usual,  meaning  and  inner  meaning, 
beauty  intrinsic  and  extrinsic,  and  right  character 
of  Christmas  Feast.  Habent  urbs  atque  orbis 
revelationem.  Pray  for  my  souL 


152 


A  STRAIGHT  TALK 

By 

G**RGE  B*RN*RD  SH*W 


A    STRAIGHT    TALK 

(Preface  to  "  Snt  George .  A  Christmas  Play"} 

WHEN  a  public  man  lays  his  hand  on  his 
heart  and  declares  that  his  conduct  needs 
no  apology,  the  audience  hastens  to  put  up  its 
umbrellas  against  the  particularly  severe  downpour 
of  apologies  in  store  for  it.  I  wont  give  the 
customary  warning.  My  conduct  shrieks  aloud 
for  apology,  and  you  are  in  for  a  thorough 
drenching. 

Flatly,  I  stole  this  play.  The  one  valid  excuse 
for  the  theft  would  be  mental  starvation.  That 
excuse  I  shant  plead.  I  could  have  made  a  dozen 
better  plays  than  this  out  of  my  own  head.  You 
dont  suppose  Shakespeare  was  so  vacant  in  the 
upper  storey  that  there  was  nothing  for  it  but  to 
rummage  through  cinquecento  romances,  Townley 
Mysteries,  and  suchlike  insanitary  rubbishheaps, 
in  order  that  he  might  fish  out  enough  scraps  for 
his  artistic  fangs  to  fasten  on.  Depend  on  it, 
there  were  plenty  of  decent  original  notions 
seething  behind  yon  marble  brow.  Why  didn't 
155 


A  CHRISTMAS  GARLAND 

our  William  use  them?  He  was  too  lazy.  And 
so  am  I.  It  is  easier  to  give  a  new  twist  to 
somebody  else's  stoi'y  that  you  take  readymade 
than  to  perform  that  highly-specialised  form  of 
skilled  labor  which  consists  in  giving  artistic 
coherence  to  a  story  that  you  have  conceived 
roughly  for  yourself.  A  literary  gentleman  once 
hoisted  a  theory  that  there  are  only  thirty-six 
possible  stories  in  the  world.  This — I  say  it  with 
no  deference  at  all — is  bosh.  There  are  as  many 
possible  stories  in  the  world  as  there  are  microbes 
in  the  well-lined  shelves  of  a  literary  gentleman's 
"den.11  On  the  other  hand,  it  is  perfectly  true 
that  only  a  baker's  dozen  of  these  have  got 
themselves  told.  The  reason  lies  in  that  bland, 
unalterable  resolve  to  shirk  honest  work,  by  which 
you  recognise  the  artist  as  surely  as  you  recognise 
the  leopard  by  his  spots.  In  so  far  as  I  am  an 
artist,  I  am  a  loafer.  And  if  you  expect  me,  in 
that  line,  to  do  anything  but  loaf,  you  will  get  the 
shock  your  romantic  folly  deserves.  The  only 
difference  between  me  and  my  rivals  past  and 
present  is  that  I  have  the  decency  to  be  ashamed 
of  myself.  So  that  if  you  are  not  too  bemused 
and  bedevilled  by  my  "brilliancy11  to  kick  me 
downstairs,  you  may  rely  on  me  to  cheerfully  lend 
156  >- 


A  STRAIGHT  TALK 

a  foot  in  the  operation.  But,  while  I  have  my 
share  of  judicial  vindictiveness  against  crime,  Im 
not  going  to  talk  the  common  judicial  cant  about 
brutality  making  a  Better  Man  of  the  criminal. 
I  havent  the  slightest  doubt  that  I  would  thieve 
again  at  the  earliest  opportunity.  Meanwhile  be 
so  good  as  to  listen  to  the  evidence  on  the  present 
charge. 

In  the  December  after  I  was  first  cast  ashore  at 
Holyhead,  I  had  to  go  down  to  Dorsetshire.  In 
those  days  the  more  enterprising  farm-laborers 
used  still  tojannually^ress  themselves  up  in  order 
to  tickle  the  gentry  into  disbursing  the  money 
needed  to  supplement  a  local-minimum  wage. 
They  called  themselves  the  Christmas  Mummers, 
and  performed  a  play  entitled  Snt  George.  As 
my  education  had  been  of  the  typical  Irish  kind, 
and  the  ideas  on  which  I  had  been  nourished  were 
precisely  the  ideas  that  once  in  Tara's  Hall  were 
regarded  as  dangerous  novelties,  Snt  George 
staggered  me  with  the  sense  of  being  suddenly 
bumped  up  against  a  thing  which  lay  centuries 
ahead  of  the  time  I  had  been  born  into.  (Being, 
in  point  of  fact,  only  a  matter  of  five  hundred 
years  old,  it  would  have  the  same  effect  to-day  on 
the  average  London  playgoer  if  it  was  produced 
157 


A  CHRISTMAS  GARLAND 

in  a  west  end  theatre.)  The  plot  was  simple.  It 
is  set  forth  in  Thomas  Hardy's  "  Return  of  the 
Native " ;  but,  as  the  people  who  read  my  books 
have  no  energy  left  over  to  cope  with  other  authors, 
I  must  supply  an  outline  of  it  myself. 

Entered,  first  of  all,  the  English  Knight,  announc- 
ing his  determination  to  fight  and  vanquish  the 
Turkish  Knight,  a  vastly  superior  swordsman,  who 
promptly  made  mincemeat  of  him.  After  the 
Saracen  had  celebrated  his  victory  in  verse,  and 
proclaimed  himself  the  world's  champion,  entered 
Snt  George,  who,  after  some  preliminary  patriotic 
Hourishes,  promptly  made  mincemeat  of  the 
•Saracen — to  the  blank  amazement  of  an  audience 
which  included  several  retired  army  officers.  Snt 
George,  however,  saved  his  face  by  the  usual  expe- 
dient of  the  victorious  British  general,  attributing 
to  Providence  a  result  which  by  no  polite  stretch 
of  casuistry  could  have  been  traced  to  the  opera- 
tions of  his  own  brain.  But  here  the  dramatist 
was  confronted  by  another  difficulty :  there  being 
no  curtain  to  ring  down,  how  were  the  two  corpses 
to  be  got  gracefully  rid  of?  Entered  therefore 
the  Physician,  and  brought  them  both  to  life.  (Any 
one  objecting  to  this  scene  on  the  score  of  romantic 
improbability  is  hereby  referred  to  the  Royal 
158 


A  STRAIGHT  TALK 

College  of  Physicians,  or  to  the  directors  of  any 
accredited  medical  journal,  who  will  hail  with  de- 
light this  opportunity  of  proving  once  and  for  all 
that  re-vitalisation  is  the  child's-play  of  the 
Faculty.) 

Such  then  is  the  play  that  I  have  stolen.  For 
all  the  many  pleasing  esthetic  qualities  you  will 
find  in  ^it — dramatic  inventiveness,  humor  and 
pathos,  eloquence,  elfin  glamor  and  the  like — you 
must  bless  the  original  author :  of  these  things  I 
have  only  the  usufruct.  To  me  the  play  owes 
nothing  but  the  stiffening  of  civistic  conscience 
that  has  been  crammed  in.  Modest  ?  Not  a  bit 
of  it.  It  is  my  civistic  conscience  that  makes  a 
man  of  me  and  (incidentally)  makes  this  play  a 
masterpiece. 

Nothing  could  have  been  easier  for  me  (if  I  were 
some  one  else)  than  to  perform  my  task  in  that 
God-rest-you-merry-  gentlemen  -may-nothing-you- 
dismay  spirit  which  so  grossly  flatters  the  sensibili- 
ties of  the  average  citizen  by  its  assumption  that 
he  is  sharp  enough  to  be  dismayed  by  what  stares 
him  in  the  face.  Charles  Dickens  had  lucid 
intervals  in  which  he  was  vaguely  conscious  of  the 
abuses  around  him ;  but  his  spasmodic  effort* 
to  expose  these  brought  him  into  contact  with 
159 


A  CHRISTMAS  GARLAND 

realities  so  agonising  to  his  highstrung  literary 
nerves  that  he  invariably  sank  back  into  debauches 
of  unsocial  optimism.  Even  the  Swan  of  Avon 
had  his  glimpses  of  the  havoc  of  displacement 
wrought  by  Elizabethan  romanticism  in  the  social 
machine  which  had  been  working  with  tolerable 
smoothness  under  the  prosaic  guidance  of 
Henry  8.  The  time  was  out  of  joint ;  and  the 
Swan,  recognising  that  he  was  the  last  person  to 
ever  set  it  right,  consoled  himself  by  offering  the 
world  a  soothing  doctrine  of  despair.  Not  for 
m  e,  thank  you,  that  Swansdown  pillow.  I  refuse 
as  flatly  to  fuddle  myself  in  the  shop  of  "  W. 
Shakespeare,  Druggist,"  as  to  stimulate  myself  with 
the  juicy  joints  of  "  C.  Dickens,  Family  Butcher."" 
Of  these  and  suchlike  pernicious  establishments 
my  patronage  consists  in  weaving  round  the  shop- 
door  a  barbed-wire  entanglement  of  dialectic  and 
then  training  my  moral  machine-guns  on  the 
customers. 

In  this  devilish  function  I  have,  as  you  know,  ac- 
quired by  practice  a  tremendous  technical  skill ; 
and  but  for  the  more  or  less  innocent  pride  I  take 
in  showing  off  my  accomplishment  to  all  and  sundry, 
I  doubt  whether  even  my  iron  nerves  would  be 
proof  against  the  horrors  that  have  impelled  me  to 
160 


A  STRAIGHT  TALK 

thus  perfect  myself.  In  my  nonage  1  believed 
humanity  could  be  reformed  if  only  it  were  intelli- 
gently preached  at  for  a  sufficiently  long  period. 
This  first  fine  careless  rapture  I  could  no  more 
recapture,  at  my  age,  than  I  could  recapture 
.hoopingcough  or  nettlerash.  One  by  one,  I  have 
flung  all  political  nostra  overboard,  till  there 
remain  only  dynamite  and  scientific  breeding. 
My  touching  faith  in  these  saves  me  from 
pessimism  :  I  believe  in  the  future  ;  but  this  only 
makes  the  present — which  I  foresee  as  going  strong 
for  a  couple  of  million  of  years  or  so — all  the  more 
excruciating  by  contrast. 

For  casting  into  dramatic  form  a  compendium 
of  my  indictments  of  the  present  from  a  purely 
political  standpoint,  the  old  play  of  Snt  George 
occurred  to  me  as  having  exactly  the  framework  I 
needed.  In  the  person  of  the  Turkish  Knight  I 
could  embody  that  howling  chaos  which  does  duty 
among  us  for  a  body -politic.  The  English  Knight 
would  accordingly  be  the  Liberal  Party,  whose 
efforts  (whenever  it  is  in  favor  with  the  electorate) 
to  reduce  chaos  to  order  by  emulating  in  foreign 
politics  the  blackguardism  of  a  Metternich  or 
Bismarck,  and  in  home  politics  the  spirited  attitu- 
dinisings  of  a  Garibaldi  or  Cavor,  are  foredoomed 

161  M 


A  CHRISTMAS  GARLAND 

to  the  failure  which  its  inherent  oldmaidishness 
must  always  win  for  the  Liberal  Party  in  all  under- 
takings whatsoever.  Snt  George  is,  of  course, 
myself.  But  here  my  very  aptitude  in  controversy 
tripped  me  up  as  playwright.  Owing  to  my  nack 
of  going  straight  to  the  root  of  the  matter  in  hand 
and  substituting,  before  you  can  say  Jack 
Robinson,  a  truth  for  every  fallacy  and  a  natural 
law  for  every  convention,  the  scene  of  Snt  George 
(Bernard  Shawls  victory  over  the  Turkish  Knight 
came  out  too  short  for  theatrical  purposes.  I 
calculated  that  the  play  as  it  stood  would  not 
occupy  more  than  five  hours  in  performance.  I 
therefore  departed  from  the  original  scheme  so  far 
as  to  provide  the  Turkish  Knight  with  three 
attendant  monsters,  severally  named  the  Good,  the 
Beyootiful,  and  the  Ter-rew,  and  representing  in 
themselves  the  current  forms  of  Religion,  Art, 
and  Science.  These  three  Snt  George  successively 
challenges,  tackles,  and  flattens  out — the  first  as 
lunacy,  the  second  as  harlotry,  the  third  as  witch- 
craft. But  even  so  the  play  would  not  be  long 
enough  had  I  not  padded  a  good  deal  of  buffoon- 
ery into  the  scene  where  the  five  corpses  are 
brought  back  to  life. 

The    restorative     Physician    symbolises    that 
162 


A  STRAIGHT  TALK 

irresistible  force  of  human  stupidity  by  which  the 
rottenest  and  basest  institutions  are  enabled  to 
thrive  in  the  teeth  of  the  logic  that  has  demolished 
them.  Thus,  for  the  author,  the  close  of  the  play 
is  essentially  tragic.  But  what  is  death  to  him  is 
fun  to  you,  and  my  buffooneries  wont  offend  any 
of  you.  Bah  ! 


1&3  M  3 


FOND  HEARTS 
ASKEW 

By 

M**R*CE  H*WL*TT 


FOND    HEARTS    ASKEW 

To 

WILLIAM  ROBERTSON  NICOLL 
SAGE  AND  REVEREND 
AND  A  TRUE  KNIGHT 

THIS  ROMAUNT 
OF  DAYS  EDVARDIAN 

PROLOGUE. 

r/^OO  strong1  a  wine,  belike,  for  some  stomachs, 
for  there's  honey  in  it,  and  a  dibbet  of  gore, 
zvith  other  condiments.  Yet  Mistress  Clio  (with 
zvhom,  some  say,  Mistress  Thalia,  that  sweet 
hoyden)  brewed  it :  she,  not  I,  who  do  but  hand  the 
cup  round  by  her  warrant  and  good  favour.  Her 
guests,  not  mine,  you  shall  take  it  or  leave  it — spill 
it  untasted  or  quaff  a  bellyful.  Of  a  hospitable 
temper,  she  whose  page  I  am ;  but  a  great  lady, 
over  self-sure  to  be  dudgeoned  by  wry  faces  in  the 
refectory.  As  for  the  little  sister  (if  she  did  have 
finger  in  the  concoction) — no  fear  of  offence  there  ! 
I  dare  vow,  who  know  somewhat  the  fashion  of 
her,  she  will  but  trill  a  pretty  titter  or  so  at  your 
(jualms. 

167 


A  CHRISTMAS  GARLAND 

BENEDICTUS  BENEDICAT. 

I  cry  you  mercy  for  a  lacuna  at  the  outset.  I 
know  not  what  had  knitted  and  blackened  the 
brows  of  certain  two  speeding  eastward  through 
London,  enhansomed,  on  the  night  of  the  feast  of 
St.  Box:  alter,  Geoffrey  Dizzard,  called  "The 
Honourable,"  lieu-tenant  in  the  Guards  of  Edward 
the  Peace  Getter ;  altera,  the  Lady  Angelica 
Plantagenet,  to  him  affianced.  Devil  take  the 
cause  of  the  bicker :  enough  that  they  were  at 
sulks.  Kerens  for  a  sight  of  the  girl  ! 

Johannes  Sargent,  that  swift  giant  from  the 
New  World,  had  already  flung  her  on  canvas, 
with  a  brace  of  sisters.  She  outstands  there,  a 
virgin  poplar-tall ;  hair  like  ravelled  flax  and 
coiffed  in  the  fashion  of  the  period;  neck  like  a 
giraffe's ;  lips  shaped  for  kissing  rather  than 
smiling ;  eyes  like  a  giraffe's  again  ;  breasts  like  a 
boy's,  and  something  of  a  dressed-up  boy  in  the 
total  aspect  of  her.  She  has  arms  a  trifle  long 
even  for  such  height  as  hers  ;  fingers  very  long, 
too,  with  red-pink  nails  trimmed  to  a  point.  She 
looks  out  slantwise,  conscious  of  her  beauty,  and 
perhaps  of  certain  other  things.  Fire  under  that 
ice,  I  conjecture — red  corpuscles  rampant  behind 
168 


FOND  HEARTS  ASKEW 

that  meek  white  mask  of  hers.  "  Forsitan  in 
hoc  anno  pulcherrima  debutantium  "  is  the  verdict 
of  a  contemporary  journal.  For  "forsitan  "  read 
"certe.""  No  slur,  that,  on  the  rest  of  the 
bevy. 

Very  much  as  Johannes  had  seen  her  did  she 
appear  now  to  the  cits,  as  the  cabriolet  swung 
past  them.  Paramount  there,  she  was  still  more 
paramount  here.  Yet  this  Geoffrey  was  not  ill- 
looking.  In  the  secret  journal  of  Mary  Jane, 
serving-wench  in  the  palace  of  Geoffrey's  father 
(who  gat  his  barony  by  beer)  note  is  made  of  his 
"lovely  blue  eyes  ;  complexion  like  a  blush  rose  ; 
hands  like  a  girl's  ;  lips  like  a  girl's  again  ;  yellow 
curls  close  cropped ;  and  for  moustachio  (so 
young  is  he  yet)  such  a  shadow  as  amber  might 
cast  on  water." 

Here,  had  I  my  will,  I  would  limn  you  Mary 
Jane  herself,  that  parched  nymph.  Time  urges, 
though.  The  cabrioleteer  thrashes  his  horse  (me 
with  it)  to  a  canter,  and  plunges  into  Soho.  Some 
wagon  athwart  the  path  gives  pause.  Angelica, 
looking  about  her,  bites  lip.  For  this  is  the  street 
of  Wardour,  wherein  (say  all  the  chronicles  most 
absolutely)  she  and  Geoffrey  had  first  met  and 
plit  their  troth. 

169 


A  CHRISTMAS  GARLAND 

"  Methinks,11  cries  she,  loud  and  clear  to  the 
wagoner,  and  pointing  finger  at  Geoffrey,  "  the 
Devil  must  be  between  your  shafts,  to  make  a 
mock  of  me  in  this  conjunction,  the  which  is  truly 
of  his  own  doing."" 

"Sweet  madam,"  says  Geoffrey  (who  was  also 
called  "  The  Ready11),  "  shall  I  help  harness  you 
at  his  side  ?  Though,  for  my  part,  I  doubt 
"'twere  supererogant,  in  that  he  buckled  you 
to  his  service  or  ever  the  priest  dipped 
you.11 

A  bitter  jest,  this  ;  and  the  thought  of  it  still 
tingled  on  the  girl's  cheek  and  clawed  her  heart 
when  Geoffrey  handed  her  down  at  the  portico  of 
Drury  Lane  Theatre.  A  new  pantomime  was  a- 
foot.  Geoffrey's  father  (that  bluff  red  baron)  had 
chartered  a  box,  was  already  there  with  his  lady 
and  others. 

Lily  among  peonies,  Angelica  sat  brooding,  her 
eyes  fastened  on  the  stage,  Geoffrey  behind  her 
chair,  brooding  by  the  same  token.  Presto,  he 
saw  a  flood  of  pink  rush  up  her  shoulders  to  her 
ears.  The  "  principal  boy  "  had  just  skipped  on 
to  the  stage.  No  boy  at  all  (God  be  witness), 
but  one  Mistress  Tina  Vandeleur,  very  apt  in 
masquerade,  and  seeming  true  boy  enough  to  the 
170 


FOND  HEARTS  ASKEW 

guileless.  Stout  of  leg,  light-footed,  with  a 
tricksy  plume  to  his  cap,  and  the  swagger 
of  one  who  would  beard  the  Saints  for  a 
wager,  this  Aladdin  was  just  such  a  galliard 
as  Angelica  had  often  fondled  in  her  dreams. 
He  lept  straight  into  the  closet  of  her  heart, 
and  "  Deus  !  "  she  cried,  "  maugre  my  maiden- 
hood, I  will  follow  those  pretty  heels  round  the 
earth  ! " 

Cried  Geoffrey  "  Yea  !  and  will  not  I  presently 
string  his  ham  to  save  your  panting  ?  " 

"  Tacete ! "  cried  the  groundlings. 

A  moment  after,  Geoffrey  forgot  his  spleen. 
Cupid  had  noosed  him — bound  him  tight  to  the 
Widow  Twankey.  This  was  a  woman  most 
unlike  to  Angelica:  poplar-tall,  I  grant  you; 
but  elm-wide  into  the  bargain ;  deep-voiced, 
robustious,  and  puffed  bravely  out  with  hot  vital 
essences.  Seemed  so  to  Geoffrey,  at  least,  who 
had  no  smattering  of  theatres  and  knew  not  his 
cynosure  to  be  none  other  than  Master  Willie 
Joffers,  prime  buffo  of  the  day.  Like  Angelica, 
he  had  had  fond  visions ;  and  lo  here,  the  very 
lady  of  them  ! 

Says  he  to  Angelica,  "  I  am  heartset  on  this 
widow." 

171 


A  CHRISTMAS  GARLAND 

"  By  so  much  the  better ! "  she  laughs.  "  I  to 
my  peacock,  you  to  your  peahen,  with  a  God- 
speed from  each  to  other." 

How  to  snare  the  birds  ?  A  pretty  problem  : 
the  fowling  was  like  to  be  delicate.  So  hale  a 
strutter  as  Aladdin  could  not  lack  for  bonamies. 
"  Will  he  deign  me  ?  "  wondered  meek  Angelica. 
"  This  widow,"  thought  Geoffrey,  "  is  belike  no 
widow  at  all,  but  a  modest  wife  with  a  yea  for  no 
man  but  her  lord."  Head  to  head  they  took 
counsel,  cudgelled  their  wits  for  some  proper 
vantage.  Of  a  sudden,  Geoffrey  clapped  hand  to 
thigh.  Student  of  Boccaccio,  Heveletius,  and 
other  sages,  he  had  the  clue  in  his  palm.  A 
whisper  from  him,  a  nod  from  Angelica,  and  the 
twain  withdrew  from  the  box  into  the  corridor 
without. 

There,  back  to  back,  they  disrobed  swiftly, 
each  tossing  to  other  every  garment  as  it  was 
doffed.  Then  a  flurried  toilet,  and  a  difficult, 
for  the  man  especially ;  but  hotness  of  desire 
breeds  dexterity.  When  they  turned  and 
faced  each  other,  Angelica  was  such  a  boy  as 
Aladdin  would  not  spurn  as  page,  Geoffrey 
such  a  girl  as  the  widow  might  well  covet  as 
body-maid. 

172 


FOND  HEARTS  ASKEW 

Out  they  hied  under  the  stars,  and  sought  way 
to  the  postern  whereby  the  mummers  would  come 
when  their  work  were  done.  Thereat  they 
stationed  themselves  in  shadow.  A  bitter  night, 
with  a  lather  of  snow  on  the  cobbles  ;  but  they 
were  heedless  of  that :  love  and  their  dancing 
hearts  warmed  them. 

They  waited  long.  Strings  of  muffled  figures 
began  to  file  out,  but  never  an  one  like  to  Aladdin 
or  the  Widow.  Midnight  tolled.  Had  these  two 
had  wind  of  the  ambuscado  and  crept  out  by 
another  door  ?  Nay,  patience  ! 

At  last !  A  figure  showed  in  the  doorway — a 
figure  cloaked  womanly,  but  topped  with  face  of 
Aladdin.  Trousered  Angelica,  with  a  cry,  darted 
forth  from  the  shadow.  To  Mistress  Vandeleur's 
eyes  she  was  as  truly  man  as  was  Mistress 
Vandeleur  to  hers.  Thus  confronted,  Mistress 
Vandeleur  shrank  back,  blushing  hot. 

"  Nay  ! "  laughs  Angelica,  clipping  her  by  the 
wrists.  "  Cold  boy,  you  shall  not  so  easily  slip 
me.  A  pretty  girl  you  make,  Aladdin  ;  but  love 
pierces  such  disguise  as  a  rapier  might  pierce 
lard." 

"  Madman  !  Unhandle  me ! "  screams  the 
actress. 

173 


A  CHRISTMAS  GARLAND 

"No  madman  1,  as  well  you  know,"  answers 
Angelica,  "  but  a  maid  whom  spurned  love  may 
yet  madden.  Kiss  me  on  the  lips  !  " 

While  they  struggle,  another  figure  fills  the 
postern,  and  in  an  instant  Angelica  is  torn  aside 
by  Master  Willie  Joffers  (well  versed,  for  all 
his  mumming,  in  matters  of  chivalry).  "  Kisses 
for  such  coward  lips?"  cries  he.  "Nay,  but 
a  swinge  to  silence  them ! "  and  would  have 
struck  trousered  Angelica  full  on  the  mouth. 
But  decollete  Geoffrey  Dizzard,  crying  at  him 
"Sweet  termagant,  think  not  to  baffle  me 
by  these  airs  of  manhood ! "  had  sprung  in 
the  way  and  on  his  own  nose  received  the 
blow. 

He  staggered  and,  spurting  blood,  fell.  Up 
go  the  buffo's  hands,  and  "  Now  may  the  Saints 
whip  me,11  cries  he,  "for  a  tapster  of  girl's 
blood ! "  and  fled  into  the  night,  howling  like 
a  dog.  Mistress  Vandeleur  had  fled  already. 
Down  on  her  knees  goes  Angelica,  to  stanch 
Geoffrey's  flux. 

Thus  far,  straight  history.      Apocrypha,  all  the 

rest :   you   shall  pick   your  own  sequel.     As  for 

instance,  some  say  Geoffrey  bled  to  the  death, 

whereby  stepped   Master  Joffers  to  the  scaffold, 

174 


FOND  HEARTS  ASKEW 

and  Angelica  (the  Vandeleur  too,  like  as  not)  to 
a  nunnery.  Others  have  it  he  lived,  thanks  to 
nurse  Angelica,  who,  thereon  wed,  suckled  him 
twin  Dizzards  in  due  season.  Joffers,  they  say, 
had  wife  already,  else  would  have  wed  the 
Vandeleur,  for  sake  of  symmetry. 


175 


DICKENS 

By 

G**RGE  M**RE 


DICKENS 

I  HAD  often  wondered  why  when  people  talked 
to  me  of  Tintoretto  I  always  found  myself 
thinking  of  Turgeneff.  It  seemed  to  me  strange 
that  I  should  think  of  Turgeneff  instead  of 
thinking  of  Tintoretto  ;  for  at  first  sight  nothing 
can  be  more  far  apart  than  the  Slav  mind  and 
the  Flemish.  But  one  morning,  some  years  ago, 
while  I  was  musing  by  my  fireplace  in  Victoria 
Street,  Dolmetsch  came  to  see  me.  He  had  a 
soiled  roll  of  music  under  his  left  arm.  I  said, 
"  How  are  you  ?  "  He  said,  "  I  am  well.  And 
you  ?  "  I  said,  "  I,  too,  am  well.  What  is  that, 
my  dear  Dolmetsch,  that  you  carry  under  your 
left  arm  ? "  He  answered,  "  It  is  a  Mass  by 
Palestrina."  "  Will  you  read  me  the  score  ? "  I 
asked.  I  was  afraid  he  would  say  no.  But 
Dolmetsch  is  not  one  of  those  men  who  say  no, 
and  he  read  me  the  score.  He  did  not  read  very 
well,  but  I  had  never  heard  it  before,  so  when  he 
finished  I  begged  of  him  he  would  read  it  to  me 
again.  He  said,  "Very  well,  M**re,  I  will  read 
it  to  you  again.""  I  remember  his  exact  words, 
179  N  2 


A  CHRISTMAS  GARLAND 

because  they  seemed  to  me  at  the  time  to  be  the 
sort  of  thing  that  only  Dolmetsch  could  have 
said.  It  was  a  foggy  morning  in  Victoria  Street, 
and  while  Dolmetsch  read  again  the  first  few 
bars,  I  thought  how  Renoir  would  have  loved  to 
paint  in  such  an  atmosphere  the  tops  of  the 
plane  trees  that  flaccidly  show  above  the  wall  of 
Buckingham  Palace.  .  .  .  Why  had  I  never  been 
invited  to  Buckingham  Palace  ?  I  did  not  want 
to  go  there,  but  it  would  have  been  nice  to  have 
been  asked.  .  .  .  How  brave  gaillard  was  Renoir, 
and  how  well  he  painted  from  that  subfusc 
palette !  .  .  . 

My  roving  thoughts  were  caught  back  to 
the  divine  score  which  Arnold  Dolmetsch  was 
reading  to  me.  How  well  placed  they  were, 
those  semibreves !  Could  anyone  but  Palestrina 
have  placed  them  so  nicely  ?  I  wondered  what 
girl  Palestrina  was  courting  when  he  conceived 
them.  She  must  have  been  blonde,  surely,  and 
with  narrow  flanks.  .  .  .  There  are  moments 
when  one  does  not  think  of  girls,  are  there  not, 
dear  reader?  And  I  swear  to  you  that  such  a 
moment  came  to  me  while  Dolmetsch  mumbled 
the  last  two  bars  of  that  Mass.  The  notes  were 
"  do,  la,  sol,  do,  fa,  do,  sol,  la,"  and  as  he 
180 


DICKENS 

mumbled  them  I  sat  upright  and  stared  into 
space,  for  it  had  become  suddenly  plain  to  me 
why  when  people  talked  of  Tintoretto  I  always 
found  myself  thinking  of  Turgeneff. 

I  do  not  say  that  this  story  that  I  have  told 
to  you  is  a  very  good  story,  and  I  am  afraid 
that  I  have  not  well  told  it.  Some  day,  when  I 
have  time,  I  should  like  to  re-write  it.  But 
meantime  I  let  it  stand,  because  without  it  you 
could  not  receive  what  is  upmost  in  my  thoughts, 
and  which  I  wish  you  to  share  with  me.  With- 
out it,  what  I  am  yearning  to  say  might  seem  to 
you  a  hard  saying  ;  but  now  you  will  understand 
me. 

There  never  was  a  writer  except  Dickens. 
Perhaps  you  have  never  heard  say  of  him  ?  No 
matter,  till  a  few  days  past  he  was  only  a  name 
to  me.  I  remember  that  when  I  was  a  young 
man  in  Paris,  I  read  a  praise  of  him  in  some 
journal ;  but  in  those  days  I  was  kneeling  at  other 
altars,  1  was  scrubbing  other  doorsteps.  ...  So 
has  it  been  ever  since  ;  always  a  false  god,  always 
the  wrong  doorstep.  I  am  sick  of  the  smell  of 
the  incense  I  have  swung  to  this  and  that  false 
god — Zola,  Yeats,  et  tmis  ces  autres.  I  am  angry 
to  have  got  housemaid's  knee,  because  I  got  it  on 
181 


A  CHRISTMAS  GARLAND 

doorsteps  that  led  to  nowhere.  There  is  but 
one  doorstep  worth  scrubbing.  The  doorstep  of 
Charles  Dickens.  .  .  . 

Did  he  write  many  books  ?  I  know  not,  it  does 
not  greatly  matter,  he  wrote  the  "  Pickwick 
Papers  " ;  that  suffices.  I  have  read  as  yet  but  one 
chapter,  describing  a  Christmas  party  in  a  country 
house.  Strange  that  anyone  should  have  essayed 
to  write  about  anything  but  that !  Christmas  — I 
see  it  now — is  the  only  moment  in  which  men  and 
women  are  really  alive,  are  really  worth  writing 
about.  At  other  seasons  they  do  not  exist  for  the 
purpose  of  art.  I  spit  on  all  seasons  except 
Christmas.  .  .  Is  he  not  in  all  fiction  the  great- 
est figure,  this  Mr.  Wardell,  this  old  "  squire " 
rosy-cheeked,  who  entertains  this  Christmas  party 
at  his  house  ?  He  is  more  truthful,  he  is  more 
significant,  than  any  figure  in  Balzac.  He  is 
better  than  all  Balzac's  figures  rolled  into  one.  .  . 
I  used  to  kneel  on  that  doorstep.  Balzac  wrote 
many  books.  But  now  it  behoves  me  to  ask  my- 
self whether  he  ever  wrote  a  good  book.  One 
knows  that  he  used  to  write  for  fifteen  hours  at  a 
stretch,  gulping  down  coffee  all  the  while.  But 
it  does  not  follow  that  the  coffee  was  good,  nor 
does  it  follow  that  what  he  wrote  was  good.  The 
182 


DICKENS 

Comedie  Humaine  is  all  chicory.  .  .  I  had  wished 
for  some  years  to  say  this,  I  am  glad  (Favoir 
debarrasse  ma  poitrine  de  qa. 

To  have  described  divinely  a  Christmas  party 
is  something,  but  it  is  not  everything.  The  dis- 
engaging of  the  erotic  motive  is  everything,  is  the 
only  touchstone.  If  while  that  is  being  done  we 
are  soothed  into  a  trance,  a  nebulous  delirium  of 
the  nerves,  then  we  know  the  novelist  to  be  a 
supreme  novelist.  If  we  retain  consciousness,  he 
is  not  supreme,  and  to  be  less  than  supreme  in 
art  is  ^o^ notjexist.  .  .  Dickens  disengages  the 
erotic  motive  through  two  figures,  Mr.  Winkle,  a 
sportman,  and  Miss  Arabella,  "a  young  lady 
with  fur-topped  boots.""  They  go  skating,  he 
helps  her  over  a  stile.  Can  one  not  well  see  her  ? 
She  steps  over  the  stile  and  her  shin  defines 
itself  through  her  balbriggan  stocking.  She  is  a 
knock-kneed  girl,  and  she  looks  at  Mr.  Winkle 
with  that  sensual  regard  that  sometimes  comes 
when  the  wind  is  north-west.  Yes,  it  is  a  north- 
west wind  that  is  blowing  over  this  landscape 
that  Hals  or  Winchoven  might  have  painted — no, 
Winchoven  would  have  fumbled  it  with  rose- 
madder,  but  Hals  would  have  done  it  well.  Hals 
would  have  approved — would  he  not  ? — the  pollard 
183 


A  CHRISTMAS  GARLAND 

aspens,  these  pollard  aspens  deciduous  and 
wistful,  which  the  rime  makes  glistening.  That 
field,  how  well  ploughed  it  is,  and  are  they  not 
like  petticoats,  those  clouds  low-hanging  ?  Yes, 
Hals  would  have  stated  them  well,  but  only 
Manet  could  have  stated  the  slope  of  the  thighs 
of  the  girl — how  does  she  call  herself  ? — Arabella 
— it  is  a  so  hard  name  to  remember — as  she  steps 
across  the  stile.  Manet  would  have  found 
pleasure  in  her  cheeks  also.  They  are  a  little 
chapped  with  the  north-west  wind  that  makes  the 
pollard  aspens  to  quiver.  How  adorable  a  thing 
it  is,  a  girl's  nose  that  the  north-west  wind  renders 
red !  We  may  tire  of  it  sometimes,  because  we 
sometimes  tire  of  all  things,  but  Winkle  does  not 
know  this.  Is  Arabella  his  mistress  ?  If  she  is 
not,  she  has  been,  or  at  any  rate  she  will  be. 
How  full  she  is  of  temperament,  is  she  not  ?  Her 
shoulder-blades  seem  a  little  carelessly  modelled, 
but  how  good  they  are  in  intention  !  How  well 
placed  that  smut  on  her  left  cheek  ! 

Strange  thoughts  of  her  surge  up  vaguely  in  me 
as  I  watch  her — thoughts  that  I  cannot  express 
in  English.  .  .  Elle  est  plus  vieille  que  les  roches 
entre  lesquelles  elle  s'est  assise ;  comme  le  vampire 
elle  a  ete  frequemment  morte,  et  a  appris  les 
184 


DICKENS 

secrets  du  tombeau ;  et  s'est  plongee  dans  des 
mers  profondes,  et  conserve  autour  d'elle  leur  jour 
mine;  et,  comme  Lede,  etait  mere  d'Helene  de 
Troie,  et,  comme  Sainte-Anne,  mere  de  Maria ;  et 
tout  cela  n'a  ete  pour  elle  que.  .  .  .  I  desist,  for 
not  through  French  can  be  expressed  the  thoughts 
that  surge  in  me.  French  is  a  stale  language. 
So  are  all  the  European  languages,  one  can  say  in 
them  nothing  fresh.  .  .  .  The  stalest  of  them  all 
is  Erse.  .  .  . 

Deep  down  in  my  heart  a  sudden  voice  whispers 
me  that  there  is  only  one  land  wherein  art  may 
reveal  herself  once  more.  Of  what  avail  to  await 
her  anywhere  else  than  in  Mexico  ?  Only  there 
can  the  apocalypse  happen.  I  will  take  a  ticket 
for  Mexico,  I  will  buy  a  Mexican  grammar,  I  will 
be  a  Mexican.  .  .  .  On  a  hillside,  or  beside  some 
grey  pool,  gazing  out  across  those  plains  poor 
and  arid,  I  will  await  the  first  pale  showings  of 
the  new  dawn.  , 


185 


EUPHEMIA 
CLASHTHOUGHT 

AN  IMITATION  OF 
MEREDITH 


EUPHEMIA   CLASHTHOUGHT  * 

IN  the  heart  of  insular  Cosmos,  remote  by  some 
scores  of  leagues  of  Hodge-trod  arable  or 
pastoral,  not  more  than  a  snuff-pinch  for  gaping 
tourist  nostrils  accustomed  to  inhalation  of  prairie 
winds,  but  enough  for  perspective,  from  those 
marginal  sands,  trident-scraped,  we  are  to  fancy, 
by  a  helmeted  Dame  Abstract  familiarly  profiled 
on  discs  of  current  bronze — price  of  a  loaf  for 
humbler  maws  disdainful  of  Gallic  side-dishes  for 
the  titillation  of  choicer  palates — stands  Clash- 
thought  Park,  a  house  of  some  pretension,  men- 
tioned at  Runnymede,  with  the  spreading 
exception  of  wings  given  to  it  in  later  times 
by  Daedalean  masters  not  to  be  baulked  of 
billiards  or  traps  for  Terpsichore,  and  owned  for 

1  It  were  not,  as  a  general  rule,  well  to  republish  after  a 
man's  death  the  skit  you  made  of  his  work  while  he  lived. 
Meredith,  however,  was  so  transcendent  that  such  skits  must 
ever  be  harmless,  arid  so  lasting  will  his  fame  be  that  they 
can  never  lose  what  freshness  they  may  have  had  at  first. 
So  1  have  put  this  thing  in  with  the  others,  making  improve- 
ments that  were  needed. — M.  B. 


A  CHRISTMAS  GARLAND 

unbroken  generations  by  a  healthy  line  of  pro- 
creant  Clashthoughts,  to  the  undoing  of  collateral 
branches  eager  for  the  birth  of  a  female.  Pas- 
sengers through  cushioned  space,  flying  top- 
speed  or  dallying  with  obscure  stations  not 
alighted  at  apparently,  have  had  it  pointed  out 
to  them  as  beheld  dimly  for  a  privileged  instant 
before  they  sink  back  behind  crackling  barrier  of 
instructive  paper  with  a  "Thank  you,  Sir,""  or 
"Madam,""  as  the  case  may  be.  Guide-books 
praise  it.  I  conceive  they  shall  be  studied  for  a 
cock-shy  of  rainbow  epithets  slashed  in  at  the 
target  of  Landed  Gentry,  premonitorily.  The 
tintinnabulation^  enough.  Periodical  footings  of 
Clashthoughts  into  Mayfair  or  the  Tyrol,  sig- 
nalled by  the  slide  from  its  mast  of  a  crested 
index  of  Aeolian  caprice,  blazon  of  their  presence, 
give  the  curious  a  right  to  spin  through  the 
halls  and  galleries  under  a  cackle  of  housekeeper 
guideship — scramble  for  a  chuck  of  the  dainties, 
dog  fashion.  There  is  something  to  be  said  for 
the  ropers  twist.  Wisdom  skips. 

It  is  recorded  that  the  goblins   of  this   same 

Lady    Wisdom    were    all    agog    one    Christmas 

morning  between  the  doors  of  the  house  and  the 

village  church,  which  crouches  on  the  outskirt  of 

190 


EUPHEMIA  CLASHTHOUGHT 

the  park,  with  something  of  a  lodge  in  its  look, 
you  might  say,  more  than  of  celestial  twinkles, 
even  with  Christmas  hoar-frost  bleaching  the  grey 
of  it  in  sunlight,  as  one  sees  imaged  on  seasonable 
missives  for  amity  in  the  trays  marked  "  sixpence 
and  upwards,"  here  and  there,  on  the  counters  of 
barter. 

Be  sure  these  goblins  made  obeisance  to  Sir 
Peter  Clashthought,  as  he  passed  by,  starched 
beacon  of  squirearchy,  wife  on  arm,  sons  to  heel. 
After  him,  certain  members  of  the  household — 
rose-chapped  males  and  females,  bearing  books  of 
worship.  The  pack  of  goblins  glance  up  the 
drive  with  nudging  elbows  and  whisperings  of 
"  Where  is  daughter  Euphemia  ?  Where  Sir 
Rebus,  her  affianced  ?  " 

Oft  they  scamper  for  a  peep  through  the 
windows  of  the  house.  They  throng  the  sill  of 
the  library,  ears  acock  and  eyelids  twittering 
admiration  of  a  prospect.  Euphemia  was  in  view 
of  them — essence  of  her.  Sir  Rebus  was  at  her 
side.  Nothing  slips  the  goblins. 

"  Nymph  in   the  Heavy  Dragoons "  was    Mrs. 

Cryptic-Sparkler's  famous  definition  of  her.     The 

County  took  it  for  final — an  uncut   gem  with  a 

fleck  in  the  heart  of  it.     Euphemia  condoned  the 

191 


A  CHRISTMAS  GARLAND 

imagery.  She  had  breadth.  Heels  that  spread 
ample  curves  over  the  ground  she  stood  on, 
and  hands  that  might  floor  you  with  a  clench 
of  them,  were  hers.  Grey  eyes  looked  out 
lucid  and  fearless  under  swelling  temples  that 
were  lost  in  a  ruffling  copse  of  hair.  Her  nose 
was  virginal,  with  hints  of  the  Iron  Duke 
at  most  angles.  Square  chin,  cleft  centrally, 
gave  her  throat  the  look  of  a  tower  with  a 
gun  protrudent  at  top.  She  was  dressed  for 
church  evidently,  but  seemed  no  slave  to 
Time.  Her  bonnet  was  pushed  well  back  from 
her  head,  and  she  was  fingering  the  rib- 
bons. One  saw  she  was  a  woman.  She  inspired 
deference. 

"  Forefinger  for  Shepherd^  Crook "  was  what 
Mrs.  Cryptic-Sparkler  had  said  of  Sir  Rebus.  It 
shall  stand  at  that. 

"  You  have  Prayer  Book  ?  "  he  queried. 

She  nodded.     Juno  catches  the  connubial  trick. 

"  Hymns  ?  " 

"  Ancient  and  Modern." 

"  I  may  share  with  you  ?" 

"  I  know  by  heart.     Parrots  sing."" 

"  Philomel  carols,"  he  bent  to  her. 

"  Complaints  spoil  a  festival.11 
192 


EUPHEMIA  CLASHTHOUGHT 

He  waved  hand  to  the  door.  "  Lady,  your 
father  has  started." 

"  He  knows  the  adage.     Copy-books  instil  it." 

"  Inexorable  truth  in  it." 

"  We  may  dodge  the  scythe." 

"  To  be  choked  with  the  sands  ?  " 

She  flashed  a  smile.  "  I  would  not,"  he  said, 
"  that  my  Euphemia  were  late  for  the  Absolution." 

She  cast  eyes  to  the  carpet.  He  caught  them 
at  the  rebound. 

"  It  snows,"  she  murmured,  swimming  to  the 
window. 

"  A  flake,  no  more.     The  season  claims  it." 

"  I  have  thin  boots." 

"  Another  pair  ?  " 

"  My  maid  buttons.     She  is  at  church." 

"  My  fingers  ? " 

"  Ten  on  each." 

"  Five,"  he  corrected. 

"  Buttons." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon." 

She  saw  opportunity.  She  swam  to  the  bell- 
rope  and  grasped  it  for  a  tinkle.  The  action 
spread  feminine  curves  to  her  lover's  eyes.  He 
was  a  man. 

Obsequiousness  loomed  in  the  doorway.  Its 
193  o 


A  CHRISTMAS  GARLAND 

mistress  flashed  an  order  for  port — two  glasses. 
Sir  Rebus  sprang  a  pair  of  eyebrows  on  her. 
Suspicion  slid  down  the  banisters  of  his  mind, 
trailing  a  blue  ribbon.  Inebriates  were  one  of 
his  hobbies.  For  an  instant  she  was  sunset. 

"  Medicinal,""  she  murmured. 

"  Forgive  me,  Madam.  A  glass,  certainly. 
'Twill  warm  us  for  worshipping." 

The  wine  appeared,  seemed  to  blink  owlishly 
through  the  facets  of  its  decanter,  like  some  hoary 
captive  dragged  forth  into  light  after  years  of 
subterraneous  darkness — something  querulous  in 
the  sudden  liberation  of  it.  Or  say  that  it 
gleamed  benignant  from  its  tray,  steady-borne  by 
the  hands  of  reverence,  as  one  has  seen  Infallibility 
pass  with  uplifting  of  jewelled  fingers  through 
genuflexions  to  the  Balcony.  Port  has  this  in  it : 
that  it  compels  obeisance,  master  of  us  ;  as  opposed 
to  brother  and  sister  wines  wooing  us  with  a  coy 
flush  in  the  gold  of  them  to  a  cursory  tope  or 
harlequin  leap  shimmering  up  the  veins  with  a 
sly  wink  at  us  through  eyelets.  Hussy  vintages 
swim  to  a  cosset.  We  go  to  Port,  mark  you  ! 

Sir  Rebus  sipped  with  an  affectionate  twirl  of 
thumb  at  the  glass's  stem.  He  said  "  One  scents 
the  cobwebs." 

194 


EUPHEMIA  CLASHTHOUGHT 

"  Catches  in  them,"  Euphemia  flung  at  him. 

"  I  take  you.     Bacchus  laughs  in  the  web.1* 

"  Unspun  but  for  Pallas." 

"  A  lady's  jealousy." 

"  Forethought,  rather." 

"  Brewed  in  the  paternal  pate.     Grant  it !  " 

"  For  a  spring  in  accoutrements." 

Sir  Rebus  inclined  gravely.  Port  precludes 
prolongment  of  the  riposte. 

She  replenished  glasses.  Deprecation  yielded. 
"  A  step,"  she  said,  "  and  we  are  in  time  for  the 
First  Lesson." 

"  This,"  he  agreed,  «  is  a  wine." 

"There  are  blasphemies  in  posture.  One 
should  sit  to  it." 

"  Perhaps."  He  sank  to  commodious  throne  of 
leather  indicated  by  her  finger. 

Again  she  filled  for  him.  "This  time,  no 
heel-taps,"  she  was  imperative.  "  The  Litany 
demands  basis." 

"  True."  He  drained,  not  repelling  the 
decanter  placed  at  his  elbow. 

"  It  is  a  wine,"  he  presently  repeated  with  a 
rolling  tongue  over  it. 

"  Laid  down  by  my  great-grandfather. 
Cloistral." 

195 


A  CHRISTMAS  GARLAND 

"Strange,"  he  said,  examining  the  stopper, 
"  no  date.  Antediluvian.  Sound,  though." 

He  drew  out  his  note-book.  "  The  senses™  he 
wrote,  "  are  internecine.  They  shall  have  learned 
esprit  de  corps  before  they  enslave  us"  This  was 
one  of  his  happiest  flings  to  general  from  particular. 
"  Visual  distraction  cries  havoc  to  ultimate  delicacy 
of  palate"  would  but  have  pinned  us  a  butterfly 
best  a-hover;  nor  even  so  should  we  have  had 
truth  of  why  the  aphorist,  closing  note-book 
and  nestling  back  of  head  against  that  of  chair, 
closed  eyes  also. 

As  by  some  such  law  as  lurks  in  meteorological 
toy  for  our  guidance  in  climes  close-knit  with 
Irony  for  bewilderment,  making  egress  of  old 
woman  synchronise  inevitably  with  old  man's 
ingress,  or  the  other  way  about,  the  force  that 
closed  the  aphorisfs  eye-lids  parted  his  lips  in 
degree  according.  Thus  had  Euphemia,  erect  on 
hearth-rug,  a  cavern  to  gaze  down  into.  Out- 
works of  fortifying  ivory  cast  but  denser  shadows 
into  the  inexplorable.  The  solitudes  here  grew 
murmurous.  To  and  fro  through  secret  passages 
in  the  recesses  leading  up  deviously  to  lesser  twin 
caverns  of  nose  above,  the  gnomes  Morphean  went 
about  their  business,  whispering  at  first,  but 
196 


EUPHEMIA  CLASHTHOUGHT 

presently  bold  to  wind  horns  in  unison — Roland- 
wise,  not  less. 

Euphemia  had  an  ear  for  it;  whim  also  to 
construe  lord  and  master  relaxed  but  reboant 
and  soaring  above  the  verbal  to  harmonic  truths 
of  abstract  or  transcendental,  to  be  hummed 
subsequently  by  privileged  female  audience  of  one 
bent  on  a  hook-or-crook  plucking  out  of  pith  for 
salvation. 

She  caught  tablets  pendent  at  her  girdle. 
"  How  long"  queried  her  stilus,  " has  our  sex  had 
humour  f  Jael  hammered." 

She  might  have  hitched  speculation  further. 
But  Mother  Earth,  white-mantled,  called  to  her. 

Casting  eye  of  caution  at  recumbence,  she 
paddled  across  the  carpet  and  anon  swam  out 
over  the  snow. 

Pagan  young  womanhood,  six  foot  of  it,  spanned 
eight  miles  before  luncheon. 


197 


PRISTBD  IX  GREAT  BRITAIN  BY 

RICIMKR  CLAY  ASD  SONS.  LIMITED, 

BRUNSWICK  STREKT,  STAMFORD  STRKKT,  S.K.  I, 

AN1>  BUSQAY,  SUFFOLK. 


A    000  058  247     8 


